


A Wizarding Barista's Field Guide to Seducing a Muggle

by paradigmfinch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Bisexual John Watson, First Dates, Flirting, Fluff, I need more Harry Watson in my life, M/M, Muggle Sherlock, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Potterlock, Secret Identity, Wizard John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-11-06 13:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11037558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradigmfinch/pseuds/paradigmfinch
Summary: To help pay for Healing tuition, John Watson gets a job at a coffee shop in Muggle London, where he soon sets his sights on a particularly gorgeous customer.John's seen plenty of Muggle films. How different can it really be to woo a Muggle?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Практическое руководство для волшебника-бариста по соблазнению магла](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14169951) by [Cousann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cousann/pseuds/Cousann)



> Warning: little plot to follow, but lots of fluff.

_Crack!_

“Merlin’s tits- _Watson_!”

John apparates into Speedy’s Cafe and turns to see Irene Adler glowering at him, the fragments of a ceramic plate at her feet.

“Oops! Sorry, I’ll just-“ John raises his wand, ready to execute a quick _Reparo_ charm, when Irene clutches his wrist in a vice. She glances furtively past his shoulder and out the shop window.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She growls. “This is a _Muggle_ coffee shop in the middle of _Muggle_ London. Are you trying to get arrested your first day on the job?”

“The shop isn’t even open yet, there’s no one here!” John tries unsuccessfully to free his arm from her grasp.

“Doesn’t matter. Tomorrow morning, you’re taking the Tube in with me _-_ But hold that thought for a second, Watson…” Irene steps back and rakes her eyes over him critically. “…and tell me what on Morgana’s sweet Earth you are wearing.”

John grins and flexes the black fingerless gloves he’d transfigured for himself out of an old pair of socks. “It’s what Judd Nelson wore in _The Breakfast Club_ ,” he tells her proudly. “Do you know that one? It’s a Muggle film.”

Oddly, Irene pinches the bridge of her nose and heaves a pained sigh. “Yes, darling, it is. But that movie was made in the 1980s. Nobody dresses like that anymore.” John frowns as he looks down at the red plaid shirt, denim jacket and work boots. Without another word, Irene starts pulling off his layers until John’s left in a long-sleeved white tee-shirt and dark jeans. He makes a discontented noise when she takes his gloves as well. “…Besides, if you’re anyone in that film, you’re the Jock.”

“But the jock character is an idiot.” Irene pauses styling his hair to give him a _Look_. John huffs a breath but says nothing as Irene finishes her impromptu makeover by draping a maroon apron over his head. It’s even got his name already etched on a little gold plaque.

“You should feel lucky I’m not making you wear a hairnet,” she threatens. John tugs protectively on his long blond ponytail in response. Irene continues, “I’ll take you shopping soon for some Muggle clothes.”

“I dunno, Adler. Between Healing tuition, loans, and next month’s rent, I don’t have two galleons to rub together.”

“Don’t worry. There’s a shop girl down the road who always gives me a _terrific_ discount.” Her smile is sharper than a Doxy’s and John knows better than to ask for the salacious details.

Next, Irene gives him a whirlwind crash course in operating the cash register and the various coffee-making machines, and they prepare the shop for the day ahead. John has just finished taking down the chairs when a few patrons begin to trickle in, looking haggard and desperately in need of caffeine. No matter what odd fashion choices these Muggles are making, John discovers that, blue hair and bits of metal through the nose notwithstanding,  _I need coffee_ is a universal expression.

John works well with the customers. He finds that a self-deprecating grin and a shrug is enough to make up for the times when he botches drink orders the first go-round. It’s gratifying to know that Muggles find his smile as charming as most witches and wizards do.

So, no, the customers, no matter how foreign their culture seems, aren’t a problem. It’s the dastardly complicated machinery and Muggle ephemera that have him stymied.

John is staring hard down at the drawer full of Muggle currency, a crinkled orange paper with the face of some Muggle lady clutched in one hand. He’s trying hard to remember which coins are worth how much so that he can give the right amount of change to the sweet-faced blonde woman across the counter from him. He glances to Irene beside him, who looks up from where she’s preparing the woman’s drink to take in the panic that must be in his eyes.

“Helpless wizard boy,” she curses under her breath, manhandling him out of the way of the cash register and sending him stumbling towards the electric kettle. “She wants tea. All you have to do is boil the water.” Irene turns to the blonde and sends her an apologetic smile. “Sorry about him, Tess, it’s his first day. And apparently he was raised without any real-world skills.” John opts not to remind her that she technically spent most of her childhood living in the dungeons of a magical castle.

Irene shoots John a contemptuous look that he’s quite familiar with. He’s seen it from her, from Mike, and from nearly every other muggle-born he’s befriended at one time or another. It says, _are you daft_ and _you can’t be serious_ and _I’m honestly a bit offended by your obliviousness_ all at the same time.

The blonde lady on the other side of the counter doesn’t seem to mind, though. She smiles shyly at John when he glances towards her. When he thinks Irene isn’t looking, John boils the water with magic and passes the woman her tea across the counter. “Thank you, um, John?” she glances down at his name tag. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it soon.” She smiles meaningfully at him as she drops something in the tip jar and takes her leave.

Irene puts her hands on her hips and marches towards John so he can hear her hushed words. “Don’t think I didn’t see that, John. You said you did well in Muggle Studies! And you can’t boil water or make change?”

“I did fine in Muggle Studies,” he insists. “Only, they didn’t cover evil monster beverage robots.” He eyes the brassy espresso-maker suspiciously.

“You’re hopeless.”

“Not totally, I shouldn’t think.”

"No?" Irene raises a doubtful eyebrow, so John dips his hand into the tip jar and pulls out the slip of paper that Tess had left behind. He at the very least did well enough in Muggle Studies to recognize a mobile telephone number when he gets one.

“Bill and I watch trash telly when you aren’t around to judge us,” John tells Irene. “Did you know that the acquisition of the mobile phone number is essential to the modern Muggle romance?”

“Oh, come _on,_ ” Irene gapes, snatching the paper from his hand. “You’ve been working here an hour and you’ve already got her number? I’ve been hitting on Tess for _weeks_.”

“Bad luck, Irene.” John claps a hand on her back, feeling smug. “Think of it this way. Between us, we have all our bases covered. You handle the lesbians, and I’ll take…everyone else.”

She shakes off his grip, but looks amused nonetheless. “What about bi girls? Do we flip a knut?”

“Bi girls?” John asks innocently. “I thought those were a myth. Ouch!” he yelps as Irene punches his shoulder, _hard_. “I was joking!”

“’A myth,’” Irene scoffs. “Says the bisexual wizard-boy working in a coffee shop.”

John rubs at the spot she punched, looking concernedly down at it. He hopes they’re going to cover bruising in his Healing course soon. Working with Irene, he suspects it’ll come in handy more than once. “That really hurt, you know.”

“Good,” she sniffs. Probably more resentful about Tess than she’s letting on. She can have the number as far as John is concerned. It’s not as if he has a mobile phone (or knows how to use one). The bell above the door jingles, and John steps away from Irene. Time to get back to work.

He turns his head to greet whoever’s entered the café.

John’s jaw drops.

It’s a bloke. A tall, _beautiful_ bloke, unlike anyone John has ever seen in two decades spent admiring the human form. The man is tall and slender and graceful as he struts confidently through the shop towards the counter, a long dark coat flapping behind him.

The electric kettle whistles.

John doesn’t care. He can’t tear his gaze away from the gorgeous bloke in the long coat, and just stares dumbly. The man reaches the counter, sends Irene an absent smile and barely flickers his gaze in John’s direction.

“Your usual?” Irene asks him.

“Yes. To go,” he confirms, handing over a plastic card then pulling out his mobile phone to tap away at it. Sweet Merlin, his voice is _dark_ and _smooth_. Like a long, long drink of nettle wine.

“John!” Irene calls, sounding like she may have had to repeat it a few times. John shakes his head and rips his gaze away from the dark-haired man, whose gaze still doesn't leave his phone. “Large coffee. Black, two sugars.” John jerks his head in acknowledgment and turns around to pour the man’s coffee (thankfully already brewed) into a paper cup. He takes the private moment to pull himself together with a deep breath.

He just has to turn on the Watson Charm, that’s all. It’s never failed him before.

When John turns back around, he’s ready with an inviting smile as he spoons sugar into the man’s drink.

“You’re a regular, then?” he asks lightly. The man hums, but doesn’t comment otherwise. Or look up from his screen. John wants desperately to hear the man’s voice again, especially now that it’s being denied. “I’m John,” he tries.

“Yes,” the man replies, tossing a lazy half-glance at John’s apron. “So your name badge says.”

John slips a lid onto the drink and slides it across the counter. The man reaches to take it, but John doesn’t withdraw his hold on the cup. At last, the man tears his attention away from his mobile and directs a critical gaze toward John. Victory! For a moment they are locked together, John very reluctant to let go of the drink if it makes this intriguing (beautiful) man walk out of the shop so quickly.

“Can I at least get your name? You’re a regular customer but we don’t know a thing about each other.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” A sly expression flits across the man’s face as he looks John over once again. It would almost look flirtatious, if it weren’t for the careful, calculating power behind his gaze as it flicks over different parts of John’s body. John takes a small step backwards in response to the intensity of the man’s attention.

“Just from looking at you, at your clothes, at your body language, I know immediately that you’re a medical student with a scholarship that isn’t covering all your bills. I know you went to school with Irene and she’s the one who got you this job. I know you have a dog, and that you’re something of a technophobe. And I know…” Sherlock’s expression turns bemused.

He gently takes the hand that John has resting on the coffee cup and turns it over to better inspect the calluses on John’s palms. John can’t help but feel a thrill as the stranger’s elegant hands envelope John’s. “…and you make frequent use of… a quill and ink?” he sounds truly flummoxed.

 “Are you a wizard?” John asks, hushed.

The man lets out a laugh, more disbelieving than amused, as John blinks up at him. “That’s not the reaction I usually get.”

No? How could he not be a wizard? That was _extraordinary._ The man smiles slightly as he lifts his now-freed drink to his lips to take a sip, making no move to leave his spot at the counter just yet. “Does that mean I was right about everything?”

John tries again to summon a charming grin as he plants his elbows on the counter and leans forward. He looks at the man from under his fluttering eyelashes in a way that an ex of his once described as ‘devastatingly coy’. “You got almost everything right. Except… I don’t have a dog.”

“Sure you do,” Sherlock tells him dismissively. “German Shepherd. You’re covered in its hair.”

John stiffens, standing straight as he begins to stammer, “Oh! Right! That’s…um, that’s Irene’s dog! Because we’re flatmates. Right, Adler?” John turns to see that Irene has propped herself up on one hand down the other end of the counter, all the better to watch him flirt unsuccessfully with the handsome Muggle customer.

She looks amused. “Of course, how could I forget, my _dog_.” Irene looks to the man at the other side of the counter. “Have I never told you about my dog? His name is _John_.”

John widens his eyes and clenches his jaw at Irene, trying to telegraph the words _Shut up now please_ and hoping the beautiful mystery man who notices so much, doesn’t notice.

Irene ignores this as she stalks towards John and reaches an arm around him to squeeze his shoulders. “You should come over to meet him sometime. John - my _dog_ , John – is very friendly. A bit slow, and terrifically stubborn, but quite cute despite himself. I think you two would get along.”

John forces out an awkward laugh as the Muggle man looks between them with confused suspicion on his face. "If you say so." The bell above Speedy’s door rings again as another customer exits, and he starts to step back uncertainly.

“...Well, thanks for the coffee.” His hand is on the door when John calls out.

“Wait! You never told me your name!”

The man smirks as he nudges the door open with his shoulder. There’s the smallest curl around his (soft, kissable) lips that makes John’s heart thud like maybe he has a chance.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes. See you tomorrow.” With a wink and a raise of his cup towards them, Sherlock Holmes – and what a name _that_ is – pushes out of the shop and strides off down the street.

John wheels around to face Irene, hand clutched theatrically at his chest and eyes wide. “Who was _that?_ ”

Irene smirks. “That was Sherlock Holmes. And you, my dear Watson, are in big trouble.”

John collapses against the counter, utterly stunned by the hurricane of a man. “He’s really a Muggle?” he asks, thinking of all the things Sherlock had known about him after a mere instant’s inspection.

“Yes indeed. He lives next door, one of Mrs. Hudson’s tenants,” she says, referring to the witch who was proprietor of Speedy’s and the building above it, as well as John and Irene’s former Herbology Master.

Irene’s words catch up to John. It’s like his brain is struggling to come back into focus after that stunning, dizzying, too-short conversation. “What did you mean when you said, ‘I’m in trouble’? Is he already seeing someone?”

“Worse.”

“Oh God,” John groans. “He’s straight?”

Irene laughs merrily. “Oh no, Sherlock is gayer than a Billywig. But he hasn’t dated anyone since I first met him three years ago. Not since his childhood sweetheart broke his heart.” There’s a sad smile on Irene’s face.

“You two are friends, then?” John ventures.

“He doesn’t have ‘friends’ in the traditional sense. But, every once in a while, he can be persuaded into staying after hours for an Irish coffee. He’ll be in here tomorrow at the same time, for the same drink, if you’d like to _get to know him_ a bit better. I can tell you do, from the way you were looking at him.”

John taps his fingers on the counter, staring into space as he contemplates just how true that is.

“But Watson. Do me a favor and don’t treat him like the rest of your ‘dates.’”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He bristles.

Irene rolls her eyes. “We share a flat, John. Mike, Bill and I have discussed installing a revolving door on your room for all the witches and wizards you bring home then never see again.”

John crosses his arms defensively, knowing that she’s possibly a bit right. He hasn’t had a relationship that lasted longer than a weekend or two in…more than a year, he thinks. He tells himself it’s because he’s busy with his Healing rotations, although he knows his exes would insist he’s just emotionally constipated.

No matter what Irene said, John can’t help but think about it for the rest of his shift, whenever he catches a minute to himself. The mad Muggle who made his blood sing.

It seems like an impossible match: Sherlock doesn’t date and John doesn’t do serious relationships. Not easily, in any case.

But how can John ignore the thrill that went through him when his eyes locked on Sherlock? It was like a flame licking down his spine. Like a spark of magic flashing behind his eyes. Doesn’t that have to mean something?

Maybe it was a sign. That with Sherlock he could be different. It’s silly, and he’s way ahead of himself considering he failed Divination in school, but he still feels a twinge of excitement at the thought. John licks his lips, and wonders how he might persuade Sherlock into giving him a try. No matter what happens, John has a feeling this is going to be exciting.

After all, he’s never seduced a Muggle before.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day at the shop.

Sunday morning, John drags Bill and Mike out of their beds at the crack of dawn while he gets ready for his shift.

From Mike, he needs to borrow some Muggle clothing that didn’t go out of style thirty years ago. From Bill, he needs some advice that doesn’t come with a steaming dose of Irene’s biting sarcasm. The pair of them are sacked out on the sofa, yawning and sharing amused looks (that they don’t even try to hide from him) as John continues to primp in front of the mirror. He ties back his hair, thinking he might need to trim the ends, soon.

“What’s so special about this Muggle bloke?” Bill asks through a yawn.

John pauses, shifting his weight as he tries to think of an answer that doesn’t make him sound like a lunatic.

Bill presses, “Tell me, or I’ll come down to the bloody coffee shop myself to find out.”

“Don’t you _dare!”_ John whips around to send a dark, hopefully intimidating, glare at his friend. “You do that and I will-“ John sorts through the current list of blackmail he has on his oldest friend, looking for something that will get his seriousness across. “I will tell that couple downstairs that you’re trying to seduce about your weird sex noises.”

“Oi!” Bill shouts, feigning a wounded expression. “Too far, Johnny. What’s got your wand in a knot about this bloke? You only bloody met him yesterday!”

“I know. _I know_ , okay? I’m going bloody insane!” he cries, threading his fingers through his hair, tugging loose some strands experimentally to frame his face. “But I could just tell, he is _something else_. You should have seen it. He read me like a legilimens, deduced my animagus form without even knowing magic  _exists_ , and he had an insane rumbly voice, _ugh_.” John lets out a tiny groan just thinking about it. “He’s got this big coat that he whips around like a set of really posh dress robes, and his hair is dark and curly and looks really soft and he has _gorgeous_ eyes. And I can't explain how, but I felt this… instant attraction, the moment I saw him.”

John whines and gives up on his reflection, and the purple creases under his eyes. He’d spent most of the night awake, his rapid thoughts toggling between strategies for catching Sherlock’s eye, and contemplation of the how he had gone mad so quickly.

Irene finally speaks from her perch on a stool next to the kitchenette, where she has been quietly nursing a cup of coffee. “He’s not kidding about that last bit. When Sherlock walked through the door, the kettle whistled.”

John looks at her blankly.

“So?” asks Bill.

“It’s an _electric_ kettle.” Irene winks at Mike, who guffaws.

“E-lec-tric,” Bill repeats. “That’s like- light bulbs and that, yeah?”

Mike and Irene turn twin looks of pitying disbelief upon Bill, and John finally feels vindicated about his Muggle Studies N.E.W.T. He knows all about electricity. It’s what Mike’s telly runs on.

“What’s light bulbs gotta do with Johnny’s boyfriend?” Bill continues, and John’s smugness evaporates.

“He’s not my boyfriend! And… he probably won’t ever be. Irene says he never dates. And he barely even looked at me yesterday.” John feels truly morose about this whole thing.

“That isn’t the John Watson I know.” Mike says, shooting a spell at John that steams out the creases in his borrowed shirt. “You’ll find a way to catch his eye. Do you remember your fling with Reggie Musgrave back at Hogwarts?”

Bill’s eyes light up and he crows in delight. “Are you suggesting the _Reggie Musgrave Charm Offensive_? A John Watson classic!” John feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, contemplating the idea.

Irene’s eyes narrow suspiciously at Bill’s words. She was eager enough to tell Mike and Bill about John’s crush on a customer last night, but she was still protective of Sherlock. “When you say ‘charm offensive,’ you don’t mean-”

“Not to worry, Irene,” Mike interrupts. “He means ‘charm’ strictly in the Muggle sense.”

“And that’s up to personal taste!” Bill calls and John makes a face at him in the mirror.

“What did it involve?”

John shrugs, coming to balance on the sofa arm beside Mike. “I tried all the usual stuff first. Sweets and flowers and Butterbeer in Hogsmeade. And he was definitely interested. He'd flirt and smile and stand too close. But he kept ditching me for other blokes when things were finally going somewhere. So, I switched tactics. Just played it cool, pretended I wasn't into it anymore. Wasn't interested, you know.” John smirks as he remembers how quickly that had earned Reggie’s full attention.

Mike rolls his eyes while Bill snorts. “He _thought_ he was playing hard to get-“ Mike retorts, and John looks down at him in confusion. “But John was dead smitten with Reggie and rubbish at acting like he wasn’t. So what actually happened was, John ran hot and cold on the poor bloke for weeks right up until Reggie had had enough and climbed him like a Wiggentree.”

Bill nods in appreciation. “I remember that. Nearly snogged your face off after that Quidditch match, he did. And Ravenclaw had lost!”

John gapes in disbelief at this blatantly false retelling. That is _not_ how it happened.

He doesn’t get a chance to defend the honor of his seductive abilities over the sound of Irene’s laughter joining in Mike and Bill’s.

She doesn’t stop laughing all the way to work, her giggles renewing themselves intermittently every time he clumsily tries to change the topic. The volume and intensity only increases when he loses a hard-fought battle against the turnstiles of the London Underground.

* * *

The hours at work before Sherlock appears are excruciating.

On the positive side, John has only had to use magic four times this morning to correct his mistakes or to prevent near-disaster, and he’s pretty sure Irene only caught him the once. John counts this as a definite improvement over yesterday.

But ugh. Bill was right to question his sanity this morning: John has spent a total of five minutes in Sherlock’s presence. What it is exactly about the man that has him so compelled in such a short amount of time? He can’t put his finger on it. It wasn't a spell or a curse. It’s not just Sherlock's good looks, John thinks. He’s not _that_ shallow. It was also the man’s obviously brilliant mind and his sharp gaze and his velvety voice and, okay, yes: the high cheekbones that look like they could cut glass and the galaxy-colored eyes. John had only gotten a taste yesterday, a tease. Enough that now John wants to drown himself in Sherlock until he knows precisely what it was that drew him so strongly to this fascinating Muggle.

Sherlock arrives at the same time as yesterday: just before the lunch rush. By then, John’s neck is sore from whipping around every time he's heard the chime of the bell above the door, and his ears are ringing with Irene’s laughter.

Sherlock walks through the door with the same easy confidence and the same cool expression.

John offers a friendly smile and a wink when he passes Sherlock his coffee. “Your regular, Sherlock. Black with two sugars: dark and sweet.” _Just like you_ , he nearly adds. But that line would be too cheesy (even by his standards).

Just like he had done yesterday, Sherlock looks at his wretched Muggle phone the whole time. But today he brings his drink into a far corner of the shop instead of leaving straight away. John watches him curiously as Sherlock pulls papers and a small computer out of his satchel, wondering what they are for.

Through the lunch rush and for the rest of the afternoon John surreptitiously keeps one eye on Sherlock.

Over the course of several hours, Sherlock’s papers have steadily spread across the large table that he occupies, until he’s taking up eight seats of the café. When he isn’t typing away furiously, the man paces in front of the photographs and documents spread across his table, muttering to himself then darting back to his computer to make notes. Mostly, Sherlock works at his computer with an intensity John finds kind of hot. Nobody besides John seems distracted by the manic pacing though, so John assumes that Sherlock must come here and do this regularly. Curiosity is eating away at John, and he agonizes between respecting the man’s work space and plotting a reason to join Sherlock at his table.

When it’s late enough in the afternoon that the sun is streaming yellow and peach through the windows, and customers are trickling steadily out to prepare for their evening plans, John hears a garbled sound of anguish from the corner that Sherlock Holmes has occupied all afternoon. He looks over to see the Muggle glaring down at his computer hopelessly, fingers fluffing furiously through his dark mess of hair. As John watches, Sherlock lets out a noise of utter hopelessness, then collapses dramatically forward into his arms on the table.

“Hmm,” Irene hums dispassionately as she joins John in watching the clearly distressed man in the corner, arms folded. “Looks like he could use a refill.” She disappears into the little storage room through a door behind the counter (not before giving John a pointed look to make sure he understood).

John stares for a moment at the door Irene left swinging behind her before scrambling for the half-full coffee pot, grabbing a couple of sugar packets, and rounding the corner of the counter. He swipes his free hand nervously through his hair to flatten it and smooths down his apron as he approaches Sherlock’s corner.

The puddle of a man replies to the sound of John’s feet with a little whinging grumble, his arms wrapped protectively atop his head. “Go away, Irene. Leave me here to die.”

John is surprised into a chuckle. He’d built up a picture of Sherlock in his head based on their conversation yesterday. That image was of a poised, calculating and cool-headed man. Someone who walked with that much confidence and held himself with so much dignity was now acting like a diva having a strop. At the sound of John’s laugh, Sherlock twists his face partially out from under his arms.

“You’re not Irene,” he accuses, eyes narrowed at John from under a mop of truly chaotic hair.

John shrugs. “Afraid not.” He raises the pot in his left hand eloquently. “You look like you need a refill.”

With a sigh, Sherlock straightens from his crouch over the table and nudges his cup closer to John. Wordlessly, John refills it, steam curling up fresh and hot and delicious from the dark brew. “So,” he begins as he sets down the pot and reaches into his apron pocket for a pair of sugar packets. “What’s all this about?” John gestures vaguely both to the files all over the table and Sherlock’s obvious distress.

“My thesis.”

John pushes the fresh cup of coffee into Sherlock’s hands and makes a noise encouraging him to continue, head cocked invitingly.

“Three hundred pages on the Science of Deduction and its practical applicability to the field of forensic sciences.”

“I… understood most of those words individually,” John tells him, and is pleased when Sherlock lets out a genuine laugh in response. John hesitates a moment, then pulls out a chair adjacent to Sherlock to join him. He leans back in it, threading his fingers across his chest to affect an air of nonchalance he doesn’t feel. “I’m guessing this thesis has to do with the way you knew everything about me in ten seconds yesterday. But, ‘forensic’?”

Sherlock nods. “I’m a consulting detective.”

“Oh, okay.” John nods, pretending he understands. It's probably a Muggle thing.

There’s a long pause.

“Don’t you want to know what that is?” Sherlock finally asks, an edge of petulance in his tone.

“Sure,” John answers with a half-tilted grin. (In fact, he wants to know desperately, but he continues to carefully act casual. Forget his flatmates, John Watson is _damn_ smooth, and he can ‘play hard to get’ like a champion). Instead of staring at Sherlock’s mouth, like he wants to, John hunches over the table and begins to leaf curiously through Sherlock’s documents.

Sherlock frowns at John. “I’m the only one in the world, you know.”

“Okay.” John shrugs, inwardly delighted with this game. Upon further inspection, Sherlock’s papers are an oddball mixture of charts, hand-written notes on scraps of paper, and photographs that don’t move. John’s brow furrows as he thumbs through picture after picture of ordinary ash, in a variety of subtly different colors and textures. “What’s with all the ash?” he holds up one of the photographs, which Sherlock snatches out of his hand with a huff.

“It’s the basis for my next paper. I have systematically and painstakingly cataloged one hundred and sixty-three distinct varieties of tobacco ash.”

“Why?”

Sherlock mumbles something under his breath that sounds like _that’s what my adviser said_ before he addresses John. “What do you mean, why?”

John shrugs again. “What does tobacco ash have to do with solving crimes?” 

Sherlock glowers at him, nostrils flaring.

John thinks this is going pretty well for their second-ever conversation.

“I will have you know, _John_ , that I made a break in a _murder_ case because I was able to identify a rare brand of tobacco ash on the fringes of the crime scene!”

“Really?” John asks, trying to make his tone as skeptical as possible. Politeness hadn’t worked yet to make Sherlock talk to him, but offending his pride had done the trick.

“Yes, ‘ _really_.’ I’ll show you.” Sherlock turns to his computer with a contained outrage that John finds pretty fucking cute, and begins clicking furiously through a series of screens. John can’t follow the logic of it, so instead he watches the play of blue-white light over Sherlock’s face in the darkening café.

“There!” Sherlock shouts triumphantly, turning the computer around to face John. The brightly lit image on the computer shows a headline, “ _Local Man Cleared of Patricide Charges,”_ followed by a few paragraphs of text. John skims the article, distracted by the flickering images along the side of the page that look like wizarding photographs. When he reaches the bottom of the page, John looks at the buttons of the machine to locate the downwards pointing arrow. He carefully taps it a few times to continue reading the newspaper article. Ha! Muggle technology isn’t so hard. At the very end, the article says, “ _The breakthrough lead on solving this crime was provided by an anonymous tip_.”

“You gave the anonymous tip?” John asks when he looks up from the screen.

Sherlock folds his arms defensively across his chest. “Yes.”

“That’s…” (Oh, no. Maybe Mike and Bill were right, and he was pants at ‘playing it cool.’ Because what he settles on saying after a thoughtful pause, is the truth.) “That’s _amazing_.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together, before the confused look on his face turns skeptical. It’s not the reaction John usually gets when he compliments someone fit. He’d rather have gotten a smile, or a blush, or any number of body language indicators of interest. This response was just…puzzling. Does Sherlock not realize that John is flirting with him? Or is he truly as guarded in his interpersonal relationships as Irene had implied?

Glancing away from John, Sherlock asks almost timidly, “Do you really think so?” (Damn, he’s adorable. John is definitely done-for.)

“Yeah,” John tells him sincerely, letting a warm smile break across his face. “How did you know it wasn’t the son?”

Mirroring John with an uncertain smile that quickly turns sincerer, Sherlock launches into the story of how he’d solved the case. “Well, I followed the story in the press and knew straight away that the police had arrested the wrong person. I interviewed McCarthy Jr., pretending to be a reporter, and even visited the crime scene.” Sherlock tells John about his furtive trip to a secluded crime scene in the countryside. And the thing about the ash was true. He had honestly found a tiny pile of tobacco ash in the forest and used it to solve the crime and clear an innocent man of a murder charge.

It’s _incredible_. John hangs on every word, murmuring exclamations of surprise and amazement as the man speaks. Most of the boasts Sherlock makes about his logical and scientific processes go over John’s head (maybe because he loses the thread of the story more than once as he watches Sherlock’s lips) but he loves the way Sherlock’s face grows flushed and animated with enthusiasm as he recounts the case. John’s heart beats sympathetically with excitement, blood and magic pounding a little faster through his veins just listening. John wishes he had been there with him.

Sherlock finishes the story with, “As I often like to say: I know ash,” and a smug look askance at John, as he closes his computer with a flourish.

John can’t help himself. “Merlin’s beard, you’re brilliant,” he breathes.

To his delight, Sherlock’s cheeks dust with pink, (now _that’s_ a response to flattery that John understands and encourages in beautiful men) even as his nose scrunches in confusion.

“What was that you said? ‘Merlin’s beard’?”

John remembers himself and hurries to cover his mistake. “Oh um! It’s something my mates and I said at school. It-it was like we had a whole different language up there.” He hopes his laugh doesn’t sound as stiff as it feels.

“The school you attended with Irene. It’s a boarding school in Scotland, isn’t it?”

“Y-es. Hang on. Let me think what should I have said instead,” John says, trying to dissuade Sherlock from questions about Hogwarts that he doesn’t have prepared answers for. He racks his brains for hazy memories of slang that was covered in their Muggle Studies textbooks. They were all written in the seventies, but it’s the best he can do. “I could say…um. Sherlock, that deduction thing is totally rad!”

Sherlock breaks into a genuine fit of giggles. John watches, mesmerized, not caring in the least that Sherlock is laughing at him. His chin is smashed up against his neck and he’s pressing his lips together tightly, like he doesn’t want John to see his laughter. It’s really cute. John joins him in his own fit of giggles, high pitched and embarrassing compared to Sherlock’s sexy, rumbly chuckle.

John doesn’t get a chance to relish how pleasantly awkward the whole thing is. Irene’s shouted “Oi!” carries across the shop, loud and irate enough that he can’t ignore her. He turns to the counter and sees that a queue has formed while he sat with Sherlock. John didn’t so much as hear the door open, he was so entranced by his company. Like he was under some kind of undiscovered Muggle spell.

“Break-time’s over. Get your arse behind the counter, Watson!” John tries to stifle his giggles, but they escape again in a little burst when his eyes meet Sherlock’s.

Reluctantly, John stands and collects the still hot canteen of coffee that he’d brought to the table. He wonders vaguely why it hasn't cooled down by now. Not really caring, John can’t help the wide grin on his face as he winks at Sherlock before returning to work.

He glances at Sherlock’s corner constantly between customers, and is dead chuffed to see Sherlock’s inquisitive eyes watching him over the top of his computer screen more than once, before they quickly glance back down.

* * *

Just before closing time, Sherlock packs up his things and leaves the shop without a word. After staring after where he’d disappeared for a moment, John chases him out onto the pavement.

“Sherlock!”

The man turns at his name being called, what looked like a pleased look on his face quickly turning guarded. John remembers Irene's warning that this man has a romantic history of heartbreak, and thinks that he has to take this slow if he doesn’t want to scare Sherlock away.

John tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, and licks his lips. “Er. I only work weekends, at the shop. Maybe next Saturday you can tell me about another one of your cases?”

Sherlock’s eyes look carefully between John’s, searching. After a moment, he gives a decisive nod. John’s breath catches when Sherlock steps closer. He’d forgotten that Sherlock was a full head taller than him. John has to tilt his face up to meet his gaze, this close.

Sherlock takes a pen that’s clipped to the top of John’s apron and reaches for John’s left hand (the one where yesterday Sherlock had seen calluses and a smudge of ink and observed the use of a quill). He writes 10 digits in a neat line along John’s skin, the pressure raising hairs on John’s neck. “Sometimes I get called away on cases. You can use that number if I don’t show up on Saturday. Or. Sooner, if you’d prefer.” As Sherlock replaces the pen in its pocket, John grins hugely at the fresh blush on Sherlock’s cheeks, evident even in the ambient fluorescent light shining through from the shop.

“You gave me your number,” John tells him stupidly, a thrill like magic swooping in his chest. He looks down to admire the precious row of numbers in pleasure. Just like in all the romantic Muggle films!

“I did.” Sherlock steps back once. Twice. Turns and hurries up the steps beside the café to a door that says _221B_ in brass lettering. “Maybe you should use it,” Sherlock calls with a wink as he pushes open the door to his home. He pauses to say, “Oh, and I prefer texting.” And then he’s gone.

So maybe John can’t ‘play hard to get.’ But this way is more fun anyhow.

John turns to look through the shop window where Irene is sitting on the counter, munching on popcorn and obviously having been watching this whole time. (Where did she even get popcorn? Whatever.) John beams and points to the hand where Sherlock had written the number and does a little happy jump because he can’t help it. He bounds back into the now-empty shop and tells her brightly, “He gave me his phone number!”

Irene shakes her head in disbelief and throws some popcorn at him. “Yes he did. You, John Watson, wizarding-barista slash shameless flirt, got Sherlock Holmes’ mobile number. In a day.” Irene hops down from the counter and goes to count the till. “You are a wonder. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t saw it all myself. Now go stack the chairs and sweep up.”

“Okay. But first, I have a question,” John says. Irene looks at him expectantly.

“Yes?”

“What exactly is ‘ _texting’_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that's a cliffhanger. 
> 
> I'm aiming for once a week updates on this fic as a rough timeline. Might be plus or minus a few days, but I've got a little over half already written!
> 
> Happy pride month, everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns how to flirt via text

Only a few days after Sherlock gave him his number, John thinks he’s really getting the hang of flirting through a text-based medium.

He prefers to ignore how it had taken a few poor attempts to get there.

On Monday morning, Mike had given John his spare old mobile phone that was already equipped with a case that repelled atmospheric magic, and John had wasted a full hour agonizing over how to start the conversation before settling on something simple.

\- _hey_

It seemed like an elegant solution: a straight-forward way to begin the conversation without seeming too eager.

Apparently not.

A minute later, Sherlock had responded with a photograph of Irene at the till in her Speedy’s apron, her head thrown back in laughter. John had frowned at the image, mystified by the sight, yet still managing to feel a touch jealous. Sherlock followed up the photograph with:

_\- She’s laughing because I showed her your text. SH_

John began typing to ask for more information, but was interrupted by another message from Sherlock.

_\- Didn’t you know? It’s a cardinal "fuckboy" sin to begin a flirtatious text conversation with something so unimaginative and trite as ‘hey.’ SH_

Oh. Okay. But at least Sherlock’s use of the word ‘flirtatious’ was promising. John had begun to tap out a cheeky apology, but his fingers kept fumbling the wrong letters and before long another message from Sherlock arrived. That one made John laugh.

_\- I’ll  forgive you just this once because I can already tell by your typing speed that you are abysmal with technology. Confirms one of my very first deductions about you. SH_

_\- oi, give a bloke a cha_

_\- chance to respond_

_\- why are th letters in wrong order??_

_\- sorry_

_\- No apologies necessary. I’m in a good mood this morning, and have decided to find your ineptitude in this instance endearing. SH_

Over the next few days, John slowly improved his typing abilities. Sherlock had a dry, sarcastic wit over text, which he often used to tease John. They texted back and forth for long stretches of time, and particularly often when John was meant to be paying attention to his Healing seminars. The Mediwitch who finally confiscated his phone during his rotation hours had given him and his phone a very peculiar look, handling the device like it was liable to explode.

So, yes, there were the mechanics to work through. But flirting was flirting, and John could flirt as naturally as a dragon took to fire. And it was _exciting_ , to flirt with Sherlock. He never knew quite what to expect.

He felt an elated, nervous _spark_ in his chest every time the small device vibrated in his pocket, and when it lit up like a _Lumos_ charm beside him in bed late at night.

So yes, by Thursday night, John feels much more comfortable with the phone. He’s curled up on the sofa with it clutched in his hand as his flatmates watch a film. The film was Bill’s pick this week, and he’s chosen something with a lot of explosions and automobile chases. It’s also got guns and Muggle police officers in it, so John (of course) thinks of Sherlock.

_\- are you around? or are you still busy with that detective bloke_

_\- You’ve caught me at a good moment. The case is on hold while we wait for autopsy results. What are you doing this evening? SH_

_\- watching a film with my flatmates_

John feels proud that he could give such a proper Muggle answer. Tongue between his teeth, John taps out another message:

_\- and htinking about how fit you looked in that blue shirt this weekend_

_\- Don’t be ridiculous. SH_

_\- youre blushing. i can sense it from here_

_\- Am not. SH_

_\- are toooo_

_\- What film are you watching? SH_

_\- nice segue. bill picked it, its called die hard_

_\- do you know it?_

_\- John, I know I told you I’m not an expert in popular culture, but I think it’s possible that you know even less than I. SH_

That earlier conversation about Muggle popular culture had been particularly informative. John had learned that when a Muggle tells you he doesn’t know the name of their prime minister, you’re not meant to respond by saying ‘neither do I’.

_\- In other words, of course I know that film. I don’t live under a rock. SH_

_\- i know, you live above my cafe_

_\- You said last Sunday you’d like to hear more about my cases. SH_

_\- always_

_\- Well I’ve got something better. Autopsy results are in, finally. I have a new lead on the case. Want to help me catch a criminal tomorrow? SH_

_\- dfeinitely! yes!_

John fumbles his fingers on the keys in his haste to send Sherlock an affirmative response. He really shouldn’t be skipping classes, but he already knows the material they’re covering. His Captainship of the Gryffindor Quidditch team had given him plenty of practice healing broken noses.

_\- Good. SH_

_\- I’ll send more details in the morning. SH_

John is by now completely oblivious to his surroundings as he smiles widely at his phone, composing a response. He thumbs a random button accidentally and gasps in excitement when a new display pops up over his keyboard.

John doesn’t realize he’s giggling like a madman until he’s interrupted a minute later by Bill snatching his phone and tossing it across the room to Irene. The movie has been paused at some point. Obviously, they’ve pre-planned this phone-theft operation without his notice, because Bill is ready to restrain John when he tries to make a jump for it.

“Oi!” he cries, put out.

Irene squints down at John’s phone. “It’s worse than we thought, Mike,” she tells him solemnly.

Mike and leans in to look at the screen himself, and groans. “Oh bollocks, he found the emojis. John you sound like a complete idiot!” With a disapproving shake of his head, Mike passes the phone back to John, who looks over the last few messages in confusion.

 

_\- sherlock and john on the case! [detective emoji] [eyes emoji] [winking face emoji]_

_\- did you know that phones have hthese funny pictures?_

_\- John. SH_

_\- [rainbow emoji] [face with stuck-out tongue emoji]_

_\- thats so useful_

\- _John, don’t. SH_

_\- hang on a sec i have an idea_

\- _John? SH_

_\- John what are you typing that could possibly take this long SH_

_\- [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji] [cigarette emoji]_

_\- thats a hundred types of tobacco ash_

_\- do yuo get it_

_\- John. Stop. SH_

_\- [kissing face emoji] [winking face emoji]_

_\- And it’s one hundred and sixty-three types. SH_

_\- whatever you say, ash boy_

_\- [flame emoji] [microscope emoji] [face blowing a kiss]_

_\- I’m leaving this conversation now. SH_

 

“What do you mean?” John asks. The little pictures seem light-hearted and funny to him.

“Trust me, mate.” Mike tells him grimly. “Restrict yourself to an occasional winking face. And for fuck’s sake, whatever you do, stay away from the produce.”

John pouts, not understanding, while Irene cackles. John ignores them as he sends Sherlock a last text.

_\- goodnight, sherlock._

He shields his phone from his friends’ view as he sends a follow up.

_\- [star emoji] [face blowing a kiss]_

* * *

 

John feels downright shy the next afternoon when he meets Sherlock outside his flat, having apparated into a deserted alley around the corner. Although they’ve been texting near-constantly all week, it’s surprisingly intimidating to see the man in person once again.

But then he notices that Sherlock is dressed in the blue shirt John had mentioned liking so much last night, and his confidence resurges.

“Nice shirt,” John tells Sherlock with a smug grin, raking his eyes down his lean figure in open admiration.

Sherlock scowls at him, but his cheeks are pink with embarrassment. “Did you come here to help me catch a diamond thief, or to ogle me?”

“Both.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock tells him, but there’s as much warmth in his voice as his cheeks. “Come on now, we have an appointment with the suspect’s ex-girlfriend.”

Sherlock begins walking swiftly down the pavement, and John hurries to keep up.

The case is _fun_. It involves running all across London from one lead to another as Sherlock gathers intel on a big deal that will be occurring that evening.

John is enjoying himself, but thinks he’s being mostly useless. Then he makes an offhand comment about the suspect’s shoes that helps Sherlock to stumble upon the solution for the case.

 “The footprints, of course! That was Brixton mud on Pearce’s boots!” His eyes are blown wide with realization and excitement. He grabs both sides of John’s face with an enormous smile. “John, you are luminous!”

 

Breathless and in awe, face cradled in Sherlock’s lovely hands, John wonders if he’s about to be kissed. Across the road, a streetlamp spontaneously illuminates.  But then Sherlock grabs one of John’s hands and drags him on a mad dash to the main road, and they pile into a cab that takes them to Brixton.

By the time they step out of the cab, John is practically vibrating, a sizzle of adrenaline pumping through him. Sherlock zeroes in on the drop-off location as easily as if he had cast a tracking spell on Pearce.

They peer around a corner and see two shady-looking Muggle men in the alley beside the Pearce’s previous workplace. Sherlock begins to murmur his deductions John.

“Pearce has a pocket knife. The other one’s unarmed.” Sherlock checks his watch, then curses under his breath. “This is happening too fast! There’s a pair of constables about to come around the corner on afternoon rounds. If we could just cause enough of a scene to delay the deal...” Before John has a chance to say anything, Sherlock steps out from behind the skip where they’d been crouched and starts shouting at the thief, Adam Pearce.

From there, John has trouble remembering the exact sequence of events.

He knows the buyer had fled the scene quickly. He thinks that’s when Pearce pulled out his knife, and John had tried to pull Sherlock out of the alley. He’d begun to consider just disapparating the pair of them away and damn the consequences.

But he had hesitated, and the whole altercation had ended with Sherlock narrowly avoiding a knife to the gut and the sound of bone breaking as John’s fist connected with Pearce’s nose.

It had happened to fast, John hadn’t even thought to take out his wand.

Pearce was stumbling backwards out of the alley clutching his bleeding face and shouting obscenities, when the constables Sherlock had mentioned appeared at a jog. In a moment, Pearce was in handcuffs, and a constable was asking Sherlock and John questions.

John stretches out his hand, shaking it as pain blooms across his knuckles. Sure, there was some pain involved, but Muggle fighting was thrilling! He didn’t even mind the pain so much when he looked up and saw the exhilarated smile on Sherlock’s face, and the dark heated look in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

They walk back to Sherlock’s place in silence when the officer dismisses them. It’s a weighty silence, charged and excited. Their shoulders and fingers brush tentatively a few times but never quite connect.

“So that was a case, then?” John finally asks when they stop outside Sherlock’s door.

“Yes. What did you think?”

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock smiles and nods. “I’m glad you thought so. You were quite useful in a fight.”

John playfully flexes the arm he’d used to punch Pearce and affects a casual air. “Yeah, no big deal. I have a thing for rescuing hot blokes in distress.”

Sherlock does that thing that’s dead cute where he tries to pretend he isn’t smiling and as a result his mouth makes a funny wiggly line. He looks down at John through his lashes in an unmistakably flirtatious way, and John sways closer, helpless to resist him. “And even if Pearce had succeeded with the knife, at least I’d have had a medical student to stitch me up afterwards.”

 _Stitches_. John tries not to let the distaste show on his face as he contemplates the gruesome Muggle healing technique. He laughs awkwardly to cover up his discomfort.

They stand in silence for a couple of moments, shifting their weight and not making eye contact. This is the moment, John thinks, where he’s meant to ask Sherlock out for a proper date. He’s done this dance plenty of times before. He knows the signs. It’s why Sherlock is fiddling with his keys and not going up the stairs already.

“I was wondering-“ John starts.

Sherlock’s sharp green eyes fix on John’s instantly. John feels his mouth go dry. An unexpected wave of panic and fear clenches in his gut.

“Will you come into the shop tomorrow?” John blurts out. _Coward_ , his mind taunts him. _Some Gryffindor you are._

“Oh,” Sherlock says softly. “…Yes.” John hadn’t realized there was hope on Sherlock’s face until he sees that it’s gone.

John hates himself.

 _Don’t walk away. You_ _could still ask,_ insists a voice in his head that sounds a lot like Irene’s.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” John says, and then makes it worse by sticking out his hand for Sherlock to shake. “Thanks, today was…really great.”

Then John walks away, hating himself for the last glimpse he had caught of a soft, disappointed look on Sherlock’s face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thinks he's missed his chance with Sherlock. Thankfully, Irene is here to give him a kick where it counts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The antidote to angst is fluff

John feels wretched.

Irene must notice, because she refrains from berating him for his slowness and frequent mistakes as he makes beverages for the Saturday morning crowd. Instead, she watches him with a curious, thoughtful look on her face.

Last night had been the perfect moment to finally ask Sherlock out, but John couldn’t manage it. John contemplates what had stopped him. Usually, he doesn’t mind admitting, he’s quite smooth when he’s on the pull. Unbidden, the image of Sherlock’s disappointed face flashes before his eyes yet again. Irene clears her throat pointedly and John realizes he’s been dumping vanilla syrup at an alarming rate into the coffee in front of him. When he looks up to the patron meant to receive the drink, the man looks confused and faintly alarmed. Muttering an apology, John turns to start the drink over again.

Like this, he carries on his shift in a haze, until, eventually, Sherlock walks in.

John abandons the order he’s working on and straightens up, eyes locked on him keenly. Sherlock looks as clean and neat as usual, but John notices that he’s hunching into his coat a bit, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Eyes which are resolutely stuck on the ground.

John shoulders Irene away from the register when Sherlock reaches them. She huffs, but otherwise consents to begin making Sherlock’s regular coffee.

Sherlock barely glances at John as he pays for his drink without a single word.

Oh.

John supposes he must not want to talk to him after he’d bollocksed up yesterday.

Clearing his throat, which feels very tight, John passes ten pence in change across the counter just as Irene finishes preparing the coffee and plants it in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock takes his drink and quietly leaves the shop.

John supposes that’s it, then. He’s lost his chance. Why would a bloke like Sherlock wait around for John to pull his act together? He doesn’t blame Sherlock for not wanting to talk to him ever again.

With a sudden growl, Irene shoves John off the shop floor and into the storage room. It’s not much wider than a hallway, and there isn’t room to swing a Kneazle, so John stumbles over the cluttered stock, barely staying on his feet as Irene crowds in behind him.

When he turns around, Irene is terrifying. Her glare is fearsome and she looks about three times as tall as she bears down on John.

“What the hell did you do to him?” she spits.

“Nothing!” John tells her, crossing his arms and not meeting her eyes.

She scoffs. “That was not _nothing._ He’s been in here every morning this week with a stupid grin on his face, texting you incessantly. And Mike said you skivved off of classes yesterday to chase him down on that diamond smuggling case. Then he comes in this morning looking like _that?_ If you hurt him-“

“I didn’t!” John cries, emphatic. “I just – it didn’t work out.”

Irene paces towards him, backing John farther into the corner, her voice dark and deadly serious. “You slept with him, didn’t you. Sherlock is _not_ some hookup, John Watson. You can’t just fuck him and run like you do with all your other one night stands. He deserves better than that.”

Horrified, John shakes his head. “I didn’t! I wouldn’t-“ John cuts himself off when Irene scoffs in disgust, and takes in a fast breath to explain. “We did go on that case. And it was marvelous! A-and I punched a criminal who was going to hurt him and then I walked him home and I started to ask him out on a date, but I- but something- I don’t know. I just... He was… I just couldn’t.” John shrugs, helpless to explain what had happened.

“So you didn’t sleep with him?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t ask him out either.”

“Yeah.”

“You…punched a criminal and then went home? Alone?” 

John squirms.

Irene stares, the fury in her expression slowly leaking out to make way for disbelief. She groans in frustration. “Morgana on high, John Watson, you are twenty years old, how can you be this emotionally stunted?!”

John glares, but doesn’t argue. Usually when Irene mocks him like this, it’s because she’s about to fix everything.

In their fourth year, she’d eviscerated him in the first Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match, taunted him for days, then taught him the Porskoff Ploy and helped him to perfect his reverse pass. He was made Captain the next year.

He’ll withstand her mocking if it means she’ll help him fix what he broke with Sherlock.

“Listen up, and listen carefully, because I’ve known you since we were twelve and you were basically a baby Casonova.”

“A what?”

Irene groans. “We don’t have time for your stupid pureblood obliviousness! What I’m saying is this. _You like Sherlock_. I have never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him. You are _smitten_. It’s disgusting. And normally I’d just laugh and let you blunder around like the useless Dugbog you are, but he’s equally besotted. And _he_ doesn’t deserve to get hurt because you’re afraid of commitment and can’t find the balls to admit that you’re head over heels for the bastard!

“I’m- I’m not afraid of commitment,” John protests weakly.

“John, we live together. I know about _all_ of your ‘romantic’ trysts. Anytime you like someone enough to keep them longer than a few weeks, you self-sabotage. There was Clare, and Anthony, and Thea. Oh! Then there was that _gorgeous_ curse-breaker Magdelana. And Jaman, the Dragonologist. Don’t even get me started on _Lowen_. Remember when you suddenly decided they chewed too loudly?”

“They did!”

“Lowen was a professional Quidditch player and _model_ , who thought the way your animagus left hair everywhere was _cute,_ when in fact it’s actually the most annoying thing in the world, and you broke up with them over breakfast cereal!”

“We-“

Irene interrupts him. “But you didn’t do that with Sherlock. You didn’t hook up with him and dump him the next morning. Why not?”

John gazes at Irene helplessly. “Because he’s special.”   

“Because he’s special.” Irene nods in affirmation, and John dumbly imitates her “So what do you do about that, John Watson?”

“I- I take him on a date?” John asks.

“You _ask_ him for a date. And if he says yes, you shower him with roses and Moondew and worship the ground he walks on for deigning to forgive your stupid, cowardly arse. And you do _not_ hurt him ever again.”

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock comes into the coffee shop the next morning, John is ready. He spent the entire night psyching himself up, like he used to do before a big Quidditch match. Sherlock looks guarded once again, still hunched into his shoulders.

“Black coffee, two sugars.”

“Will you have it to stay?”

Sherlock finally meets John’s gaze. “John, I don’t know if that’s a good-“

“Please?” John pleads. “I had something…something I wanted to ask you.”

Sherlock hesitates, but concedes. John gives him a big grin, and an even bigger doughnut from the pastry counter, on the house.

Sherlock rolls his eyes when John passes over the plate and his _to-stay_ mug, but the gesture only cheers John more.

John glances at Sherlock’s corner every few moments for the next hour to check that he’s still there, until Irene gets sick of him.

 “Go.”

John turns to Irene, who’s smiling politely at a customer as she makes her change. She glances back at John, eyebrows raised.

“Go over there. You’re officially on your break. Don’t come back here until you either have a date or he’s kicked you to the curb like you deserve for all your nonsense.”

John blinks, and looks at the little clock behind him. It’s nowhere near time for his break, but he won’t look a gift Abraxan in the mouth. He tugs his apron over his head and walks straight to Sherlock.

Sherlock has already set up his Muggle computer at the head of his usual table and is rubbing his chin thoughtfully as his green flicker across the screen.

John hovers by the seat next to Sherlock, licking his lips. He can’t afford to muck this up again. “This seat taken?” he asks. Sherlock’s eyes slide to look at John askance for a moment before he turns his head to look at him straight on. He looks guarded, and calculating, but not hostile. John swallows, waiting.

“It’s yours.” Sherlock watches thoughtfully as John pulls out the chair and seats himself. John settles in, and meets his gaze. John tries to telegraph with his expression the maelstrom of feelings inside him. That he’s sorry. That he’s here to eat crow. That he likes Sherlock quite a bit and would he mind going out with him for a nice meal later this week? He hopes that some of it has come across, because Sherlock gives him a small smile, and goes back to his work.

John taps out a little nervous energy on the table in front of him. How to begin?

“What are you working on?” he asks.

“Case notes for my blog.”

John’s brow furrows.

What the hell is a _blog_? Some kind of pet, maybe?

“Oh. You have one of those, then? A - blog?” John asks, hoping for some context to help him puzzle it out.

“ _The Science of Deduction_ ,” Sherlock tells him with relish. “It’s where I document my cases and experiments. I’m writing down the diamond smuggling case.” He goes back to typing.

Sounds like a diary. John wonders if he’s in it. He puts his chin in his hand and watches Sherlock work for a while.

He’s astonishingly beautiful. John’s gaze lingers over his full eyelashes and plush lips. John rubs his own lips together, wondering (hoping) what it would be like if he gets a chance to kiss them. He’s looking at the way his dark hair curls softly around his ear when he notices that Sherlock is shifting in his seat, eyes unfocused on the screen in front of him. Distracted by John’s stare?

When Sherlock glances over at him, John meets his gaze smugly, challenging.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “What?”

John shrugs, grinning. Sherlock scoffs and firmly returns to his work, although he looks like he’s trying to hide a smile.

Flashing in his mind like a winning game of Exploding Snap, John gets an idea.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your favorite flower?”

Sherlock pushes his laptop aside and looks at John head-on. “Why do you want to know?” he asks suspiciously.

John blinks at him with false innocence and a wan smile as he waits for a response. He expects the answer will be something unusual, something delicate and striking, like the man himself. Or possibly something poisonous, a good murderous flower.

Merlin, Sherlock would _love_ wizarding plants.

Sherlock huffs. “I…am partial to daisies. Yellow ones.”

Charmed by the unexpected answer, John smiles. “Not roses, or orchids?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Why daisies, then?”

“Well, I was fascinated with bees as a child. I grew up in the countryside, and there wasn’t a proper library for me to visit in the summertime, so I spent all day out of doors.” John leans forward, surprised that Sherlock is divulging a story about his past, and eager to hear more.

“My mother was too busy with her work to garden, and my father only ever bothered to clip the grass when it grew too tall to be tenable. But… there were always wildflowers outside the house. And the bees liked yellow daisies the best. As I liked bees the best, I liked the daisies best. I would sit by the daisy patch for hours and watch them pollinate. I used to-“ Sherlock stops abruptly and looks at John suspiciously. “You won’t laugh?”

“Hand on my heart.”

Sherlock is turning red. “I had a book about bees, and it said that in every hive there is a queen. So I declared myself the bee prince and wove myself yellow daisy crowns. It was very silly.”

John’s grin is huge. He can feel his eyes go a little soft as he imagines Sherlock as a young boy, big-eyed and chubby-cheeked, and yellow flowers woven through his wild hair.

“Yellow daisies?” John repeats, shifting in his seat to distract from the motion of pulling his wand from his pocket.

Bemused, Sherlock nods.

“That’s funny,” John says with false surprise. “Because I think I see something yellow behind your ear.” John once saw this done in a film, and Mike had explained that Muggles performed this trick without real magic all the time.

Carefully, John reaches out his right hand so that it hovers just past Sherlock’s peripheral vision. He glances at Sherlock’s eyes for a moment to see them locked on John’s face, gaze amused but still cautious.

John turns his attention back to his non-dominant hand, focusing all his attention on the rather tricky charm he wants to perform. Wordlessly, John channels magic into the tips of his fingers, not so much an incantation going through his mind as a feeling, a memory. He concentrates first on forming the brown center of the flower, then watches as fresh yellow petals begin to curl out from the bud, stretching themselves to a full, vibrant bloom. Sherlock shudders slightly, either from John’s proximity or because he can feel the ripple of magic in the air beside him, and John glances his face in time to see his eyes flutter shut for a moment.

John takes the now perfectly formed yellow daisy tucked between his thumb and forefinger and presents it to Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes blow wide in surprise when he sees the flower.

“Sherlock, can I take you out on a date sometime?”

The man continues blinking down in bewilderment at the flower.

“Sherlock?” John prompts after a long, agonizing silence, licking his lips. “A date?”

Snapping out of his reverie, Sherlock looks up at John with fascination lingering in his eyes.

“…Okay.”

John grins, relieved. “Okay,” he echoes.

Sherlock returns the grin tentatively for a moment, before breaking eye contact to smile down at the table.

John licks his lip. “Um…tomorrow night?”

“I- have a client coming in from out of town. Maybe Thursday?”

John grimaces. “Can’t do Thursday. I have a double shift at- at St. Barts.” John had nearly slipped and said ‘Mungo’s’. “Saturday night?” John suggests, determined to find a time. He doesn’t want to leave this table without the solid prospect of a date in the near future.

“Won’t you be working?”

“We can go after my shift.”

Sherlock bites his lower lip and looks quickly between John’s eyes. “Okay,” he finally says again, with a touch of shyness. “Saturday night.”

“It’s a date! But ugh,” John groans, and wrinkles his nose in displeasure.

“What?”

“That means I have to wait _a whole week_ before I get to take you out.”

Sherlock laughs softly. “Afraid you’ll change your mind in all that time?” he says teasingly, but John suspects Sherlock really thinks that. John could kick himself for giving Sherlock any reason to doubt his sincerity.

“Never,” John says with utmost seriousness. He takes the yellow daisy and tucks it securely behind Sherlock’s ear, nestled between pale skin and dark curls.

Perfect.

The bell above the shop door rings, and John stands to return to work. “And if you think I won’t be texting you hearts and stupid faces every night until then, you’re dead wrong.”

Sherlock bursts out laughing, and it’s the loveliest sight John’s ever seen.

Back behind the counter with his apron over his head, Irene doesn’t bother asking for details. She can read anything she needs to from the huge smile John can’t wipe off his face. John glances over to see that Sherlock has returned to his computer work, his face (slightly pinker than usual) serious once again.

And he still has the daisy tucked behind his ear.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go on their first official date.

“Are you sure it’s alright?” John asks yet again, fingers returning to ruffle through hair that feels far too short. He rocks his head side to side. It feels peculiarly light. And what if his neck gets cold?

“You look sharp, Johnny,” Bill tells him through a mouthful of sandwich, and Mike nods beside him. John smiles uncertainly and turns back to Irene, who’s still buried in Mike’s wardrobe, looking for a suitable outfit.

“Your hair looks fabulous, John. Sherlock won’t be able to take his eyes off of you. Now come here, which do you like better?” She holds out a striped red jumper in one hand, and a denim button-down shirt in the other.

“Um…”

“You’re right! Definitely the blue.” She shoves the shirt against John’s chest and claps her hands together. “Now get dressed! You only have five minutes to get back to Baker Street. It’ll be suspicious enough as it is that you had time to get dressed and have a haircut so quickly.” Irene shepherds Bill and Mike out of the room to give John some privacy.

John nods to himself, toeing into his good shoes as he buttons up the new shirt. It’s been nearly a week since he’d finally asked Sherlock out, and tonight is their first date. They’d spent all day at the shop, trading smiles and winks and flirting at every opportunity. 

Sherlock had left Speedy's an hour before closing, telling John that he had to leave to ‘get ready for a big date’. John had leaned over the counter and fluttered his eyelashes at him. _“Oh? That’s funny, I have one of those tonight, as well.”_   Irene had mimed puking, then as soon as Sherlock was out of sight, had closed up the shop early and apparated John straight into a Magi-Barber’s chair in Diagon Alley.

“So where are you taking Sherlock?” Mike calls from the hallway.

John freezes.

Oh.

Oh, no.

_Where is he taking Sherlock?_

Long seconds tick by in silence.

He hears the thump of a head connecting with a wall, and Irene’s groan.

“It's not like you haven't done this before.” Bill’s voice calls. “Where do you usually take first dates?”

John rips open the door and strides into the living room, pacing. Where _did_ he normally take first dates?

“Um. Madam Puddifoots?”

“Oh, great.” Irene said. “The eight-hour train to get there is very scenic. Quite romantic. You can use the time to explain that you’re taking him to a _magical restaurant_.”

“Irene, calm down,” said Bill. “Why would they take the train? They can apparate.”

Mike and Irene descend on Bill, berating him about Muggle transportation and the Statute of Secrecy. They’re too busy arguing with one another to notice that John is sinking into a panic.

What in the name of Merlin is he doing?! John doesn’t know anything about Muggles! The only place in Muggle London he visits are the greasy chippie across the road from their flat and his workplace. Those aren’t first date locations!

And what if Sherlock does find out about magic? John is pretty sure he would get into trouble with the Ministry.

It was bad enough when earlier that day Sherlock had discovered and correctly identified an _owl feather_ stuck in his hair. Of course he's going to figure it out!

“Merlin! No, not Merlin! _Can’t say Merlin!_ Fuck! I mean fuck! I can’t do this!” John whines, interrupting the bickering going on across the room. “What do I do? This is hopeless, I don’t know how to date a Muggle!”

Irene crosses the room to cuff him on the back of the head.

John yelps. “Ow! Stop doing that all the time!”

“Shan’t. It’s called Operant Conditioning, and you might know about it if you’d decided to go to uni like I did. Kate does the same thing to train her cat, except she uses a spray bottle.”

“Well what good does it do?”

Irene smacks the back of his head again. “I do it when you’re being a prat, so you learn through negative reinforcement to _stop being a prat_. It hasn’t started working yet!”

John backs away from her so she can’t hit him again, cupping the back of his head protectively.

“Take it easy on John,” Mike intones, the calm voice of reason.

Irene pouts at Mike. “He’s acting like a pureblood idiot.”

“I know,” Mike soothes, and John snaps an “Oi!” at him.

Mike turns to John and folds his arms, eyes sharp. “She’s got a point. Don’t be a prejudiced prat. Just because he’s a Muggle doesn’t mean you treat him any different.”

John bows his head, shame trickling in, oddly helping to dilute his panic. “Yeah, alright. Sorry, mate.”

“It's easy. Take him to a nice restaurant. Pull out his chair. Crack a joke or two, because you’re too tense, and you’re about to be late. So. Are you ready?”

John inhales a deep breath through his nose, letting his chest expand and his shoulders straighten as he looks around at each of them. “Yeah. In for a Sickle, in for a Galleon. Wish me luck.”

Even though apparition is instantaneous, John still has enough time to see Irene roll her eyes.

 

* * *

 

John reappears in Speedy’s back room, and heads straight for Sherlock’s flat next door.

When he knocks, Mrs. Hudson answers. It’s still odd to see his old professor outside of Hogwarts, no matter how often he sees her around the shop.

“Oh, John! You cut your hair. It looks very handsome.” She looks knowingly at him. “Special occasion?”

“Yes. I’m taking Sherlock out tonight.”

“Oh, that's right! He might've mentioned it a few times, now that I think about it. Sherlock!” she calls up the stairs behind her. “Your young man is here!” She turns back to John. “Now tell me, dear. Are you going to be good to Sherlock, or are you going to toss him out with last week’s _Prophets_ like you did all those nice boys and girls in school?”

John gapes. Had Mrs. Hudson and Irene been talking? Or did the professors actually notice what a cretin John acted like at Hogwarts? John honestly can't decide which is more mortifying.

“N-no!” John stammers, hoping it’s Sherlock’s footsteps he can heard thumping down the stairs behind Mrs. Hudson. “I would never do that to Sherlock, I like him a lot!”

Sherlock’s head appears over Mrs. Hudson’s, a hand resting on her shoulder. “That’s grand to hear, John. Is your protective nature satisfied, Hudders?” He ducks to kiss her cheek, using the motion to gently sidle past her and up to John.

“Oh!” Sherlock gasps, blinking stupidly down at him. “You-um. Your hair. It looks. Um. Shorter. It looks. Good.”

John grins, and promises himself that he’s going to buy Irene those Chocolate Skeletons she likes so much, next time he passes Honeydukes.

Oh, bollocks, chocolates! John should have brought Sherlock chocolates! Or…

Improvising, John reaches behind his back, and pulls out a full bouquet of daisies (white and yellow) and hands them to Sherlock, who smiles shyly down at the offering. John wonders if he can get away with giving Sherlock daisies every day.

“Oh, Sherlock. Those are your favorites, aren’t they?” asks Mrs. Hudson from where she’s still standing, framed in the doorway. Sherlock blushes, and spins in place to push the bouquet into Mrs. Hudson’s hands.

“Could you put these in water for me? Thanks ever so, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says, gently pushing her out of the door frame then shutting the door in her face. He spins around, cheeks rosy. John bites his lip to try and stifle his smile.

“Well.” John steps aside to allow Sherlock to join him on the pavement. “I was wondering if you know of a good restaurant near here? I don’t know the neighborhood very well.” _The only restaurants in London I know serve pumpkin juice and Snargaluff,_ he doesn’t say.

“Of course! You can always tell a good Chinese by the lower third of the door handle. And there’s always Angelo’s.”

“Angelo’s?” John asks, and Sherlock begins to lead him down the block, nodding cheerfully.

“Angelo is a…friend of mine, I suppose. I got him off a murder charge.”

“You didn’t!” John laughs, thinking that he probably did.

The story of Angelo the house-breaker takes them all the way to the front of a warm, cosy looking Italian restaurant that Sherlock ushers him into.

Angelo himself isn’t working, but someone called Billy (Sherlock knows him by name) shows them to a table near the window, where there are two wine glasses and an un-lit candle.

Sherlock slides into the side with an upholstered booth, so John doesn’t get a chance to pull out his chair as Mike had suggested. They order, and are left gazing at one another under the warm electric lighting.

“So.”

“So.”

They smile, John’s grin a little self-deprecating. First dates are always a bit awkward. John doesn't know how to re-start the conversation. He shifts nervously in his chair.

There’s a long stretch of agonizing quiet, interrupted when Billy delivers a basket bread. Then there’s some stilted bread-eating. By the time that’s finished, John is desperate to break the silence.

“Ah. How was your day?” he asks, then immediately realizes they’d spent the entire day in the same place. He blushes.

“...Pretty good. I spent most of it flirting with the cute barista at my local coffee shop and not getting any work done on my thesis. How was your day?”

John smiles, relieved that Sherlock is playing along. “Poured about three hundred coffees. Got a haircut.”

Sherlock’s eyes rove over John’s new style. “It was quite long, before. You must have been growing it a while.”

Not necessarily. One time his dorm mate cut off John's ponytail in the middle of the night, and Bill had helped an hysterical John grow it all back with magic the next morning.

“Yeah, I guess,” John hedges. He doesn't know what else he can say. The long hair is a pureblood tradition. He’d started wearing longer hair when he was eleven, like all the Watson men had, for generations.

“All the men in my family have long hair,” he says. It’s true, but it tastes like a lie.

Sherlock narrows his gaze, like he knows John is hiding something. He probably does. John shifts in his seat. Silence descends again.

Before long, Billy returns with their entrees, and John breathes a sigh of relief at the interruption. They eat, trading stilted conversation.

“How’s your risotto?”

“Good. Ah. How is your pasta?”

John nods, aware of how excruciatingly dull this discussion is. “Oh. Also good. Yeah.”

They eat in silence for a while longer. John squirms. “So. Do you…have any siblings?” he asks.

Sherlock grimaces.

“Sorry. Too boring?” John asks, face hot.

Sherlock cracks a smile. “It’s not that. But I don't want to think about my brother right now. Although, since you mentioned it, there is a limit for overly cliché first date conversation.”

“Today's weather and your favorite color off the table as well, then?” John jokes, easing them back into their typical banter. “I already know favorite flower, so we can check that off.”

“But I don’t know yours.”

“Mine?”

Sherlock nods, twirling his fork around a long strand of spaghetti. It’s nearly sensual.

“You want to know my favorite flower?” John sets down his utensil, nudging his plate out of the way as he leans towards Sherlock along the small table, like he might be about to tell a secret. Sherlock does the same, and rests his chin on his beautiful hands, eyes sparkling.

“Crocus,” John says.

Sherlock blinks. “Crocus,” he repeats, and John hums.

“In Scotland, it’s the first flower that blooms in Springtime. They bloom white and lavender, with a bit of yellow on the inside.”

John can’t help but reminisce about his time at Hogwarts.

He remembers tramping through the Forbidden Forest with Mike and foraging for potions ingredients on weekends. Hunting down rare herbs and fungi that would fill out their medical kits. How John was always glad when the snow thawed and the crocuses came into bloom at the bases of Alihotsy trees. How they signaled the return of fine weather and easy afternoons by the lake on the horizon.

John knows he probably looks lost in thought, a soft smile on his lips and eyes distant.

John continues his thoughts aloud. “Then they lie dormant for a few months. And when they come back, it’s in Autumn and early Winter. But then they’re orange, and gold, and deep, royal purple.”

John swallows, glances down at the rich purple of Sherlock’s silk shirt, how it contrasts beautifully with the pale skin at his throat. He watches that throat ripple as Sherlock swallows, then looks back up to his eyes. They’re much closer, now.

Sherlock murmurs, “You disappeared for a minute. Lost in your head. Where did you go?”

John smiles. “To a forbidden forest, on the outskirts of a magical castle,” he whispers. Sherlock smiles back, eyes glancing down to John’s lips.

“That’s a terrible line.”

“It’s not a line,” John murmurs, protesting.

“No?” Sherlock sways ever closer across the table, and John does the same.

“No.” John hardly knows what he’s saying anymore, lost in Sherlock’s face and his lips and his sparkling eyes.

“So you’re not about to kiss me?” Sherlock murmurs.

“Definitely not,” John breathes, and kisses him.

It seems less like a kiss and more like a flash of light. A match lit on a Gubraithian fire. Sherlock’s lips are against his and John takes in a breath through his nose, dizzy, pressing in deeper, sucking Sherlock’s full lower lip between his own. Sherlock reaches to clutch at the back of his neck and John feels a flash in his peripheral vision and a _zing_ crawl up his spine that sparks between their lips. Sherlock suddenly drags back, fingers hovering over his lips, like he had felt it too.

“I-“ John starts, with no idea how the sentence is going to end.

“Was that lit, before?” Sherlock asks suddenly, brow furrowed, as he gazes down at the candle’s flame flickering between them. The one that had definitely been unlit when they’d sat down. Discretely, John glances around the restaurant. Every candle in the restaurant is now flickering merrily, and there are several diners looking around in confusion.

John connects the dots. The kiss. The candles. It’s not the first time something like this has happened to him, but…

John knows that accidental magic is related to outbursts of strong emotion, and John has been known to have problems with it in the past. But not for years. When John was little, his temper tantrums had been fearsome. Harry had been the same. Over time, their mum figured out that if she dressed them up in Quidditch leathers and put them each on a broomstick that John and his sister could vent all of that negative emotional energy on the pitch. It had worked to quell John’s temper all through Hogwarts... except for that one time in sixth year when he’d been benched by an injury and Anderson had been being a prick and John had accidentally set the hem of his robe on fire in the middle of Divination.

John didn’t realize his accidental magic could act up …because he’s happy.

He doesn’t have time to contemplate it any longer, though.

Sherlock, apparently having decided that the candle is unimportant, redirects John’s attention to himself and dives in for another kiss. John makes a muffled sound of surprise, then lets himself melt into it, crossing his fingers that they don’t burn Angelo’s to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Your comments keep me going.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the date. John's animagus form makes an appearance at last!

John has the day off of work, and he spends most of it lounging on the couch in their flat, content to lazily flirt with Sherlock over text between episodes of rubbish telly. He sighs happily, thinking of how their evening last night had ended.

He’d walked Sherlock back to his door, asked him out for a second date on the spot, and kissed him goodnight when Sherlock had accepted (thoroughly). John had been so happy, he’d skipped all the way to an apparition point, and done an extra spin before disapparating.

“Stop doing that,” Bill grumbles from across the room.

“Doing what?”

“ _Sighing_.”

John smiles, and turns onto his stomach so he can peer over the arm of the sofa and see Bill. His friend is sitting cross-legged on the floor, packing up his potions ingredients.

“What were you making?” John asks. “It’s the weekend.”

“I’m freelance. I can make my own schedule.”

John rolls his eyes. Bill has been bragging about that since they graduated Hogwarts. As far as John can tell, he spends his days brewing smelly potions in his boxers at home, while the rest of them go out to study and work proper jobs.

John watches as Bill methodically measures out his potion into equal doses and carefully labels the vials. He _evanescos_ the bottom of the cauldron and staggers to his feet, stretching his arms over his head with a groan.

“Finished for the day?” John asks.

“Yep.”

John’s phone beeps, and he checks the screen, ignoring Bill once again. Sherlock is complaining about the work he’s doing on his thesis. John replies:

 

_\- take a break. it’s a sunny day!_

_-[emoji wearing sunglasses]_

_\- John, we really need to break you of the emoji habit. SH_

_\-  But that one is my second favorite face!_

_\- Which is your favorite? SH_

_\- yours._

_\- [winking face]_

“That’s embarrassing,” Bill says. John jumps, and scowls up at his friend whom he hadn’t noticed creeping close enough to read over his shoulder.

“Shove off, Murray.” John’s phone buzzes with another message. He smiles down at what Sherlock has written

 

_\- You win this round, I have to admit that was pretty smooth. SH_

 

“See! He likes it.” John sighs happily. Bill groans.

“There you go again with the sighing! Stop being so much happier than the rest of us.” He collapses onto the armchair beside the couch.

John sits up. “Things not going well with Riya and Aiden?” he asks, referring to the couple downstairs that Bill has been fooling around with.

Bill sighs, and John snorts.

“Who’s sighing now?”

“Mine is a sad sigh, it doesn’t count.” Bill pouts. “Riya and Aiden... I ended things. Don’t get me wrong, the sex was really good,” Bill says, and John quickly holds up his hands to make him stop.

“I didn’t ask, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“But they didn’t want to be exclusive with me.”

John hums, sympathetic. “That’s tough, mate.”

“Yeah.”  

 They sit in silence for a few moments.

“You know what would really make me feel better?”

“What?”

“A rebound.”

John rolls his eyes. That was predictable. “You rebound faster than a Quaffle on a shield charm. As long as you don’t expect me to-”

“Please? You know you’re my best wing man. Well. Wing-dog.” 

John crosses his arms. “It’s weird. Using my dog form to help you pick up women.”

“Please?” Bill pleads again, eyes big and brown and beguiling. John really does feel bad for him.

He rolls his eyes. “Go on, then. Wake Mike, then we can all go and kidnap Irene from her shift in an hour. Go to Diagon for a drink together.”

Bill cheers and races to Mike’s room to knock on the door, crashing through without waiting for an answer.

Centering himself, John concentrates, takes a deep breath, and shifts.Things feel different as a dog. Simpler. Brighter. There’s nothing like stretching his hind legs and going for a jog in this form. He can still think logically he just usually...doesn't feel like it, when he's like this.

He makes a handsome dog, he thinks, smug. He’s a tan German Shepherd with the same blue eyes that he has as a man, and nearly as big as he is as a human. His dog form has grown from a pup just as John has.

He’d gotten away with a lot at school until a jilted ex ratted him out and he’d been forced to register with the Ministry.

John is stretching out his back, paws way out in front of him and his rear high in the air when Bill reappears, dragging a Mike, rubbing his eyes groggily and stumbling, behind him. John barks, tail wagging.

“Ha!” Bill calls. “John, your hair is shorter as a dog, too!”

That’s interesting. John shakes himself like he’s just been caught in a rainstorm and notices that, yes actually, he feels significantly less fluffy. A pity. He’d liked his shaggy coat.

Yawning, Mike takes down John’s red collar and leash from where they hang next to the door, and John growls a bit.

“I know, I know,” Mike soothes, squatting down beside him. “You don’t like the collar. But do you remember last time we went out without one?” John remembers, shuddering. He’d gone out in Muggle London without a collar, and had ended up having to run from animal control officers who were armed with nets and cages. Not knowing the city’s layout very well, John had cornered himself in a dead end and had to transform back into a human and apparate away to avoid being taken to a kennel.

Reluctantly, John sits back on his haunches and allows Mike to clip the collar around his neck. Mike doesn’t withdraw his hand straight away, and John rumbles contentedly, nuzzling into Mike’s outstretched hand affectionately.

When they get to Regent's Park, Mike lets him off the blasted leash and John wastes no time bounding through the green space.

Dog-John loves the park. It’s embarrassing to think about how excited he gets in this form, but emotions like that don’t translate so well when he’s a dog. For now, he is content to yip and run and catch and trot around with the other dogs.

Bill finds another dog-owner to chat up quickly. Obligingly, John trots over to them and nudges behind the woman’s knees, causing her to stumble right into Bill’s arms. He’s sits beside them innocently as Bill winks at her and apologises for John.

“Your dog’s name is John?” the woman asks, amused. Bill seems a bit flustered in response, so John feels quite pleased with himself. He looks over to Mike to see if he’s noticed too, and sees Mike’s hand in the air, waving someone down. John follows his gaze and catches sight of Irene and Sherlock entering the park. John perks up.

Sherlock! Irene and Sherlock! Sherlock is here!

John’s uninhibited dog-brain goes nuts, and he sprints up to his pair of _friends(!)_ , jumping on them both. Irene rolls her eyes, and Sherlock laughs. “Friend of yours?” he asks Irene, bending down to pat John. John barks happily, and starts laying slobbery doggy kisses on Sherlock’s cheek and under his chin. Sherlock giggles, squirming under his tongue, and scratching behind John’s ears.

“Oh look,” Irene deadpans, dry. “He likes you. Sherlock, this is _John_. John, _sit_.”

John automatically sits back on his haunches, tail thumping along the grass in excitement. Sherlock’s eyes brighten. “John-the-dog,” he muses.

He looks into John’s eyes, and a spark of something like …recognition lights in his eyes. John thinks for a moment that Sherlock will identify him, but the look vanishes in the next moment. Sherlock still looks puzzled, though. “I’ve never seen this breed with blue eyes before. It’s almost like…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, because Bill and Mike join them. Sherlock stands up straight, eyes taking in the pair.

“Sherlock, you know Mike from St. Bart’s already,” Irene says. “And this is Bill Murray. We were all in the same year at school, with John.” That they had. One from each house. An unusual group of friends they’d made, back at Hogwarts.

“Hi, Mike. Good to meet you, Bill. And where is John?” Sherlock asks.

John barks, and everyone laughs.

“Sorry puppers, but I meant _my_ John.”

 _I’m his John?_ That’s a nice thought. John barks again, tail thumping happily and tongue out.

“ _Your_ John, is he,” Bill accuses, picking up on the wording as well. “We’re the ones who’ve known him since he was wee.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock replies blandly. “I’m the one who’s had his tongue in my mouth.”

Bill opens his mouth to retort, and John makes a low growl. Now is _not_ the time to bring up that single, drunken and inadvised shag in seventh year. Bill takes the hint, and backs up a step, hands raised defensively, but with a smirk on his face.

“Whatever you say, mate.”

Sherlock’s gaze is furrowed in concentration, looking between the group of them like he knows something is off but isn’t sure quite what.

“Do you want to go out for a drink, Sherlock?” Mike asks, navigating them out of the tricky patch of conversation. Bless Mike Stamford.

“Ah- is John going to be there?” Sherlock asks, looking like he is trying to be subtle and failing.

John barks happily in affirmation.

“Yeah, mate,” Mike says, clapping him on the back. “We’ll go pick him up _your John_ from the flat on our way. S’not far.” They clip on John’s leash and walk back to the flat, John happily tangling up Sherlock in knots with his leash the whole way there, he’s so excited.

Mike takes John upstairs where he transforms and quickly attempts to get the dog hair off of his clothes, failing miserably. He changes instead, then sprints back down the stairs without another word, Mike smug on his heels.

When he opens the door to the outside and sees Sherlock there, cornered by Irene and Bill and obviously still getting interrogated, looking airy and unconcerned, John can’t help but feel his heart ache with fondness.

When Sherlock looks up and sees him, a smile breaks out on his face. It’s _beautiful_. John pushes aside his friends and immediately takes Sherlock’s hand, reaching up to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s lips, right there in front of everyone. When he backs up, he doesn’t release Sherlock’s hand. It doesn’t matter that he only saw him a moment ago. Or that they’ve only been on one date. John is _so happy_ to see Sherlock again.

“Hello handsome. Joining us?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Were Irene and Bill giving you a hard time?” John squints at them, mildly threatening. Sherlock squeezes his hand.

“Not at all. They were talking about you, actually. The words they used were, quote, ‘embarassingly besotted’ with me. What do you have to say to that?”

John scowls at Bill and Irene. “If they have to tell you, then I’m obviously not doing my job of wooing you properly.”

 

Mike finds a nearby Muggle pub on his phone (their regular Sunday night place is in Diagon).  John stays close to Sherlock all night, holding his hand on the table or wrapping an arm around his chair. Bill spends the evening wide-eyed with fascination at the unfamiliar chaos of a Muggle pub, and thus Irene spends most of the night preventing him from performing magic or sticking his foot in his mouth.

Mike and Sherlock talk about Bart’s and their studies there. (Mike is going to be a Healer like John, but he’s on an experimental Healing track that will integrate wizards into Muggle A&E, so he knows enough about St. Barts. Technically, the buildings occupy the same space, but John spends all day in Mungo’s, while Mike splits his time between the wizarding and non-magical wings.) John is fascinated to hear about some of the medical practices that are standard in the Muggle world.

When it’s John’s turn to get a round for everyone, he watches Sherlock from the bar. John's friends are completely right: he is smitten. One date, and he can hardly take his eyes off of Sherlock. It appears he's taking part in what looks like a spirited debate against Bill. It’s gratifying to see Sherlock getting on with his friends so well. Sherlock accepts Bill’s loud inappropriate jokes without batting an eye and volleys back Irene’s sharp wit with ease. They’re an odd lot, but they’re all of John’s favorite people in one place.

He’s zoned out a bit, but comes back to reality when Mike sidles up to him and pushes his shoulder against John's. He’s giving John a serious look as he glances between him and their table.

“I like Sherlock. He makes you happy.”

John smiles, a bit shy. “Yeah.”

“Makes me wish I’d introduced you two sooner.”

“It’s funny, that you and Irene both knew him before I did. Maybe I was supposed to meet him.”

Mike smiles back, warm, his eyes sparkling. He’s genuinely pleased to see his friend happy, and John loves that about Mike. "And here I thought you stopped believing in Divination the day Trelawney gave you a P."

The smile slips slightly on Mike’s face.

“You’ll have to figure out a way to tell him.”

“That I like him?” John laughs. “I think he knows.”

“That you’re a _wizard_.”

John freezes.

Mike claps a hand on John’s shoulder. “I know, mate. It’s tricky. But if you want to keep him…you don’t want to wait until you’re moving in together, or walking down the aisle, to tell him you’ve been lying about who you are since you met.”

John has been avoiding thinking about this. 

Mike is right. He’d slip up sooner rather than later at the worst possible time, and would that damage their trust?

John should call Harry, she used to be a lawyer with the Ministry, maybe she could help him navigate the Statute of Secrecy. He imagines that conversation in his head.

Hey Harry, this bloke I really like kissing is a Muggle and I want to go out with him and kiss him forever probably but I’m pants at Muggle stuff. Do you know if they’ll send me to Azkaban for telling him that I can make magical lights shoot out of a stick?

Shuddering, John thinks he can probably put off that conversation a while longer. But now that Mike has planted the seed in his head, John knows that he won’t be able to stop worrying about it. It was easy to ignore when he was still fantasizing about Sherlock, about his soft hair and sweet lips. But now he knows what it’s like to kiss him, to hold his hand, to be with him. And he doesn’t want to lose that. Not ever.

First he has to figure out how to tell a logical, brilliant Muggle scientist whom he adores that magic exists. And convince him not to run away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may slow down: work is crazy busy for the next few weeks. But at least that means I'm working!! Bill Murray and I are both living that freelance lifestyle. 
> 
> Thank you for all your beautiful comments on the last chapter :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jealousy! Dancing! Fortunes!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly recommend pulling up Ella Fitzgerald's Cheek to Cheek for the relevant portion of the story. I listened to it on repeat as I was writing that section of this chapter!

With time, John has only gotten better at hiding his true identity from Sherlock, and it feels wrong.

Then again, there have been several instances where John nearly revealed his secret.

\- When he planned his magical departure wrong, and got to the planned restaurant in half the time it should have taken. (He lied and just barely convinced Sherlock that he was already nearby).

\- When Sherlock noticed his wand in his jeans and asked, disbelievingly, why John was carrying a weapon in his back pocket. (John had distracted him from the question, teasing him for looking at his arse).

\- When John showed up to a date wearing a shiny blue plastic jacket and baggy trousers, and Sherlock had spit out his seltzer upon seeing him (John gave Mike a hard time for that one. How was John to know, digging through his friend’s wardrobe unattended, what was day wear and what was intended for a costume party?)

\- When John had gotten a papercut one evening and showed up for work  without a scratch the next morning.

\- When Sherlock surprised him in the back room for a snog and John yelped, “Galloping gargoyles!”

\- When John mentioned having a purple toad for a pet as a child.

\- When he told Sherlock he was so hungry he could eat a hippogriff.

John had dodged every single time, claiming ignorance and confusion. Approximately ten suspicious incidents over the course of a month wasn’t _that_ bad.

When stacked up against all the times John hadn’t done anything suspicious, he thinks his record is pretty good. But he is dating _Sherlock Holmes_ , the most observant man in London. It’s a miracle Sherlock hasn’t already figured out exactly what’s amiss. Instead, John is pretty sure Sherlock is just under the impression that John is a slightly eccentric and very private Muggle man who doesn’t like to talk about his childhood or weekday-job much. So John continues to stall, hoping that he’ll find a simple solution for telling Sherlock the truth. Mostly, John forgets about it. He forgets he’s meant to be worried, forgets he’s meant to be guarded around Sherlock.

They have had five more “dates” since Angelo’s, and have spent every weekend mooning across the Speedy’s counter at each other. Three of the six dates included chasing down a criminal, and two had included a romantic meal, and one a trip to the cinema. Irene and Bill think they’re disgusting, and Mike thinks they’re sweet. John had even asked Mrs. Hudson to split his paychecks into Galleons and British pounds, so that he could treat Sherlock to a night out once or twice a week, depending on whether or not Sherlock allowed him to pay his half. 

They have laughed and bickered and snogged and talked and bantered and held hands as they chased criminals down dark alleys.

John is in love with Sherlock.

How could he not be? Sherlock is the most brilliant, most beautiful, most _human_ man he’s ever known, and John was ready to fall in love the second he saw him. It’s easy to put aside his niggling worries when he feels full to the brim with happiness.

He’s moonstruck, smiling to himself at work, when a well-muscled customer comes up to the counter and asks if he can buy Sherlock a drink.

John stares.

“What?” he bristles. The man smiles, big white teeth contrasted with tan skin.

“Two refills, please. One for me, and one of whatever that beautiful boy in the corner is having.”

John looks towards Irene, wide-eyed. Irene is shaking with silent laughter, already preparing the coffees.

“That’ll be three pounds twenty,” Irene cackles, pushing the drinks at the customer. Mutinously, John puts the change in the drawer, and watches as the man swaggers over to Sherlock’s table.

Sherlock is sitting with his legs folded on the bench, earbuds in, and concentrating fiercely on his computer screen. John knows he has a deadline on his thesis that he needs to meet by this afternoon. The earbuds are a signal to the world at large that today is not the day for distractions, or in John’s case, constant flirting. It’s a smart tactic, because otherwise John would spend the day trying to feed him bites of sweet pastries and pitching love notes and bad poetry at him on balled up pieces of paper.

“I’m just going to…” John mutters to Irene and grabs a towel. He gets closer to Sherlock’s corner and pretends to clean a nearby table, eyes barely leaving the interloper’s annoyingly muscled shoulders. The man stands there with two mugs of coffee, waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge him.

Sherlock looks determinedly at his laptop screen, but his back is tense. He knows the man is standing next to him, but is probably hoping he’s going to go away on his own when Sherlock pays him no attention. Shrugging, the man instead helps himself to the seat beside Sherlock ( _John’s seat,_ he thinks possessively). He sits there quietly sipping at his coffee for a minute, and John continues to make himself look busy.

The man asks Sherlock, “What’re you listening to?”

Sherlock ignores him.

The man then has the nerve to pluck one of Sherlock’s earbuds from his ear. Sherlock freezes, and slowly turns his head to turn a disbelieving glower on this stranger. John tenses, ready to step in should Sherlock need any help. Or step away, if Sherlock decides he likes the look of the man, thinks a small insecure part of John.

“This is for you,” the man says, and hands Sherlock the coffee he’d ordered.

Sherlock does not drink from it.

“Black two sugars. Just how you take it,” the man continues, oblivious to Sherlock’s annoyance.

“Thanks,” Sherlock says. “Keep them coming. And maybe a blueberry scone, later.” Sherlock pointedly replaces the earbud. The man gapes.

“I’m not a waiter!” he cries, indignant. Sherlock tilts his head innocently. He's _playing with his food_ , John thinks fondly.

“No?” Sherlock asks. “Then what are you doing here.”

The man recovers, summoning another (charming, fake) smile. John wants to hit him with a _Furnunculus_ jinx. He wouldn’t be so handsome if his face was covered in boils. John resists, and goes back to pretending to wipe down another table. It's coincidental that from this location he gets a better view of both of them.

“I’ve seen you here before. Always sitting alone, always working hard. I thought I’d ask you out to have some fun, for once. Help you take a break from whatever this is you’re working on.”

“Hmmm….no thanks.”

“Why not, baby? You don’t like me? I’m a nice man.”

Sherlock shuts his laptop with a sigh, and turns to give his full attention to this stranger. His face softens and he flutters his eyelashes. John slams a plate down on the table harder than necessary.

Sherlock sighs again, and at this point John is no longer even pretending not to be paying attention. Sherlock sets his head in his chin with a despondent look at the man.

“I'm sure you are, darling, and I really wish I could but,” Sherlock sighs regretfully. “It just wouldn’t be fair to my boyfriend.”

John smiles widely, and busies himself with gathering the cutlery on the table as the man stands, offended, and sends a hot glower towards John.

Palming his wand discretely, John helps him out the door with a gust of wind and a tripping jinx.

 

* * *

 

Irene has a date, so she leaves John to close the shop on his own. He doesn’t mind: he has company.

Specifically, he has Sherlock, who’s seated himself on the countertop and is playing music from his computer. He can’t seem to settle on one song for long, changing every minute or so. From David Bowie to Vivaldi to Beyonce. Under Sherlock’s careful supervision, John has received a thorough education in the history of Muggle music these last few weeks.

John is roaming around the dim café with a mop, slowly wiping up all the spills and messes from a busy day. The mop is mostly for show (he's not very good at manual cleaning yet - isn't that what cleaning charms are for?) A bubbly, bright song begins with a woman’s vocals and a brassy beat.

 

_Heaven. I’m in heaven,_

_And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak_

_And I seem to find the happiness I seek_

_When we’re out together dancing, cheek to cheek._

 

“Oh, I _like_ this one! Come dance with me!” John calls to Sherlock, swaying with the mop.

Sherlock’s shoulders are twisting with the beat, and there’s a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “You’ll have to come and get me.”

John saunters over to him in time with the music, gently nudging Sherlocks legs apart so he can fit himself between them. Sherlock sets aside his computer and wraps his arms loosely around John’s neck. John cranes up onto the tips of his toes to give Sherlock a firm, smacking kiss.

“Come and dance with me, _boyfriend_.”

“You’ll have to do better than that to persuade me, _boyfriend.”_ Sherlock smiles slyly down at John from under his curls, one of his hands dipping into John’s shirt at the back, and a shudder runs down his spine.

John growls, scooping his hands under Sherlock’s thighs and _lifting._ Sherlock squawks, ankles and arms locking instinctively around John’s body as John spins him, laughing in delight at Sherlock’s wide eyes. He whirls Sherlock around the coffee shop, gently bouncing him to the breezy music. When Sherlock’s fit of laughter subsides, he unlocks his grip on John and slides down to his feet, pressing his cheek against John’s and clasping John’s hand with one hand and his shoulder with the other. He croons the lyrics in John’s ear, his deep voice richly blending with the singer’s.

 

_Dance with me_

_I want my arm about you_

_The charm about you_

_Will carry me through to heaven_

 

“Who is this?” John murmurs, maneuvering their dancing so they don’t bump into any tables.

“Ella Fitzgerald covering Fred Astaire.”

“It’s nice,” John sighs, content. He feels the warm thrumming in his veins that he has recently come to recognize as the magic that Sherlock stirs up in him whenever they’re together. Carefully, John tamps down on it, not ready to inadvertently reveal his secret to Sherlock.

Sherlock hums as the song winds to an end and the shop is left in silence. Sherlock ducks to plant a kiss on the corner of John’s mouth and releases him. “Dinner? We could…” Sherlock bites his lip, apparently nervous. “order takeaway and eat it, um, upstairs? If you wanted.”

John perks up. He’s been curious about Sherlock’s flat for ages. “Yes, please.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s flat is warm and dusty and creaky and eclectic. It reminds John of the Gryffindor Common Room and feels instantly like home. They chat over Chinese takeaway about Sherlock’s book collection (extensive) and his clean cutlery collection (nil) and John learns by necessity how to eat with the disposable wooden chopsticks that came with their order.

Sherlock tells him about the index he’s created so that one day he’ll theoretically be able to predict the fortunes before he cracks open the cookies. He takes diligent note of John’s fortune (“You already know the answer to the question lingering inside your head”), and wrinkles his nose at his own (“The fortune you seek, is in another cookie”)

The light in the flat grows dim and soft as the sun sets and they set aside their meal. They’re sitting on either end of Sherlock’s couch, angled towards one another but not touching. In a quiet moment during their conversation, Sherlock mentions,

“You know, I sort of liked how jealous you were this afternoon. When that idiot asked me out. It was funny, but also- strangely attractive.”

John grins, pleased at the declaration, and shifts closer to Sherlock. “You called me your boyfriend.”   

Sherlock inches towards John, fingertips trailing up John’s bicep to the back of his neck. “Aren’t you? We’ve been on six dates.”

“Is it a date if we arrest a criminal in the middle of dinner?”

Sherlock scoffs, “When you’re dating me, it is.”

Smiling, John pulls Sherlock close enough to kiss him, cupping his chin to tilt it to a desirable angle. “I’m glad you’re my boyfriend, then,” John rumbles, and continues to snog Sherlock senseless.

They’ve been here before, and it doesn’t take long before Sherlock throws a leg over John’s lap and sits, tongue pushing insistently at John’s mouth, both of them breathing raggedly as they push together. Sherlock runs his hands down John’s sides and plucks his shirt from his trousers, then pushes his hands up along John’s bare torso, skimming over his nipples and exploring his firm, fuzzy chest. John whines, his hips thrusting up against Sherlock involuntarily, hands clenching Sherlock’s backside. Sherlock groans, detaching himself from John’s mouth and starting to nip along John’s throat as his fingers thread through the buttons on John’s shirt.

As Sherlock grinds down, John distantly registers that they’re both aroused, and that there is a strong indication of where this encounter is heading. Physically, this is new territory between the two of them.

That’s important. Why is that important?

It’s in a sort of half-absent panic as he tries to collect his thoughts despite the influx of pleasure in his system that John speaks:

“Hang on, Sherlock, hang on,” John he gasps, moving his hands away from his boyfriend's gorgeous bum to more neutral territory, on his forearms.

“What?” Sherlock gasps, still nuzzling into John’s neck, his hot mouth trailing along John’s throat.

Merlin, John wishes he didn’t have to stop him. But this is important. John knows that sex between them is a big step, and he doesn’t want his secret lingering between them during their first time together.

“I thought we were taking things slow?” John pants, gently and ineffectively pushing at Sherlock.

Sherlock groans as he finally pulls himself away from his attentions along John’s collarbone. “There’s slow, yes. And then there’s _glacial_. Which is what we’ve been doing.”

John laughs shakily, because the plush pout on his boyfriend’s face is too cute. He cups a hand along the side of his face, thumb pressing against the pretty moue his lips make.

“I wasn’t prepared for this tonight. Maybe we could cool things down and watch a film instead?”

Sherlock sits back, perching near John’s knees so they’re no longer pressed together in more intimate areas. He has a puzzled line between his eyes. “Is it because I’m…inexperienced?” Sherlock asks, sounding uncertain.

“No,” John says, firm. “It’s not you, Sherlock. I’m just…not ready.”

He scoffs. “ _You’re_ not ready? Irene’s told me a bit about your sexual history, you know. It’s not like it’d be _your_ first time-“ Sherlock clams up.

Surprised, John waits for Sherlock to say something else, but Sherlock only sits there with his jaw clenched shut.

“Sherlock,” John asks gently. “Are you a virgin?”

“No,” Sherlock replies, immediately. His nose is raised, proud and defensive. John doesn’t _think_ he’s lying, but…

“It’s okay if you are.”

“I’m not!” Sherlock cries. “Didn’t I just say I’m not?” Finally, Sherlock removes himself from John’s lap, sliding away to collapse by his side. He flings an arm over his eyes and takes a big breath. “I’ve…had sex before. _Once_. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Okay,” John nods, shifting to better face Sherlock.

“ _Okay_.”

John lets the silence sit a minute longer before prodding Sherlock to elaborate. “You said ‘once.’ Is there a story with that?”

Sherlock removes the hand from his eyes and takes a big sigh, looking down at his hands now picking at the pillow he pulled into his lap.

“It was with my ex. Victor.”

They’ve touched on Victor briefly in conversation before, but John hasn’t gotten any more detail than what Irene had been willing to share: they were together a long time when they were young, until the relationship ended and Sherlock, apparently broken-hearted, swore off dating. Until John.

“Victor and I grew up together. We were close even when we were little kids, and both our families thought we’d end up married someday. They used to joke about it before we even started ‘dating,’ when I was thirteen. But Victor was two years older than me, and he didn’t want to…take advantage of that. So we waited a long time. The night before he left for uni, we decided to try it.” Sherlock shrugs, but he looks stiff and uncomfortable. John reaches out a hand to rest on his upper arm.

“Was he- did you not want to?”

“It wasn’t like _that_ , I wanted it just as much as he did.” Sherlock shifts, looking like he really doesn't want to be having this conversation. John doesn't blame him.

John tries to crack a joke. “Was the sex that bad?”

Sherlock laughs, and some of the tension finally breaks. “It was _awful_. Embarrassing. Uncomfortable. _Short_ , obviously. But I - I loved him. So it was nice, too.”

“But there was no second time. What happened?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, glances at John before returning his gaze resolutely to his lap. “Oh, you know,” he says gustily. “He went to uni. I waited for him to come back, but...”

“He cheated on you?” John guesses.

“Not…exactly. Victor. Well. He fell in love with someone else.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmurs. That sounds somehow worse than a partner cheating with sex.

“So that’s my sob story!” Sherlock says, falsely cheery all of a sudden, trying to brush off the intimate moment.

 John can’t let it go that quickly, though.

“Thanks for telling me,” John begins, and Sherlock scoffs, looks away. Stubbornly, John continues. “Sherlock, this - you and me - us. This is…” John quashes the instinctive panic he feels, and lets himself speak frankly, however difficult he finds it, about his emotions. “I really like you.”

 _I love you_. _I love you. I love you and I’m sorry anybody ever hurt you._

John swallows. “I really like you, and believe me when I say, I _really_ want to have sex with you,” John chuckles, pleased when Sherlock flashes a tiny grin. John runs a hand through Sherlock’s curls until the man looks back at him again. “But can we take this slow for just a bit longer?”

Sherlock looks thoughtfully at John. “You’re hiding something,” he announces. “Something significant.”

John is tense. “Yes,” he admits, looking between Sherlock’s serious grey eyes.

“I’ve known for a long time. What are you hiding from me that’s so important, John?”

“I…need some time. To figure out how to tell you.” John brings both his hands to Sherlock’s face, the better to lock gazes with him. Sherlock brings up his hands to John’s wrists, and they complete a circuit. Energy hums smoothly between them, a physical magic that the curriculum of Hogwarts failed to cover.

“Call me a romantic sap, but I want our first time to be special. And I don’t want to be hiding from you, when we do.”

“You’re a romantic sap,” Sherlock recites, and John laughs, and kisses him on the nose.

“I know. So. Let’s watch that film now, eh?”

When the film has started (something with lots of explosions that Sherlock insists John will like) Sherlock seats himself primly beside John, apparently still anxious from the conversation. John tugs him over to his side, and after a moment, Sherlock gradually melts into his touch.

Sherlock curls himself into John’s side on the sofa, and John holds him there tightly until he feels the tension completely unspool from his muscles, as Sherlock drops off to sleep. John sends him sweet dreams with a kiss to the top of his head, and watches the movie without taking any of it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with this update! May be some more delay getting the last few chapters out (2-3 more, I think!)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic is real and Sherlock is about to find out that his boyfriend is a wizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for interrobangs and minor injury including blood

John absently orders one of his regular choices from the spotty wizard behind the counter at St Mungo’s canteen. He knows the menu by heart from frequent late-night meals and mid-afternoon snacks during his long shifts in the ward. At the register, he verifies his wand for a staff discount and passes a few sickles across the counter to pay, his food appearing instantly on an empty tray.

He starts eating as soon as he finds an empty table. Maybe it’s rude not to wait for Harry to arrive, but he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t touch anything here, anyway. He keeps one eye on the door and the other on the public floo, waiting for his sister to appear.

He’d sent her an owl this morning, asking if she’d be willing to meet him during his lunch break. Having a Ministry attorney for a sister has some perks, free legal advice chief among them. It almost makes up for how obnoxiously delighted their mother is that Harry continued the family tradition. Watsons are meant to be lawyers, not healers.

John pulls out his phone to check the time, and the screen unlocks to his text log. He scrolls through the messages he and Sherlock had exchanged since their _talk_.  The talk about Sherlock’s history with Victor that concluded with John’s unwillingness to reciprocate information about his own past.

He’s ashamed, reading the messages, at how he’s continued to snub Sherlock since.

**[Monday]**

Dinner tonight? SH

        I have work

Tomorrow? SH

        can’t. sorry

I don’t even get a sad face emoji? SH

John? SH

 

**[Wednesday]**

Will I see you before your shift Saturday? SH

Why aren’t you answering? SH

I can see when you’ve read my messages, you know. SH

Stop ignoring my calls. SH

 

**[Thursday]**

Is something wrong? SH

Irene says you’re not dead. How comforting. SH

At least now I know you’re just avoiding me. SH

        I’ll text you later, ok

John. SH

John. SH

John, talk to me. SH

Please. SH

 

**[Friday]**

I miss you. SH

 

John types out a reply. His first meaningful one in days.

       I miss you too. talk soon.

 

This can’t go on any longer. Sherlock deserves to know his secret. And because John simply  _misses_ Sherlock. He misses talking to him every day. He misses the way Sherlock rolls his eyes at John’s dumb jokes and he misses the tiny wrinkle that appears between his eyebrows when he’s solving a case.

 

“Johnny!”

Only one person still calls John that.

John stands with a grin towards the floo where Harry appeared. He takes a step towards her when there’s a second _whoosh_ from the green flames and another blonde woman appears. John’s grin falters, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“John, darling!” his mum cries, brushing ash off her clothes and stepping around Harry to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Hello, Mum.” John gives her a one armed hug, shooting Harry an accusing look over his mother’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” It’s not that it isn’t good to see her. It just would have been easier to have a conversation with Harry without her there.

“Mum and I were having coffee when your owl came this morning. She decided to invite herself to lunch,” Harry shrugs, looking not very sympathetic as Mum continues to fuss over John, helping him into his seat and imperiously summoning a pot of tea for the table.

One of the quirks of being a magical twin is that John can always tell what Harry’s feeling if she's close by, and vice versa. Right now he’s feeling her sympathy laced with an edge of amused smugness. John rolls his eyes at her, and she winks. “Maybe next time you should text me if you don’t want Mum reading over my shoulder. You know she hates Muggle tech.”

They grin at each other, and John lets his annoyance slide away. After Sherlock, Mike, and Irene, Harry is his fourth and last mobile phone contact. And she _never_ judges his emojis.

Mum tuts. “Is that why you hardly ever answer my owls, John? Too busy _text-ing?_ ” she says the final word with the careful precision of someone who has been corrected before.

“I owl you every week, Mum.”

“Harry and I have tea every week. Why don’t you ever join us?”

John sighs at the familiar question. “I’m busy, Mum.”

“Harry’s busy. She’s a Ministry lawyer.”

“Harry doesn’t have two jobs.”

“I’ve told you before I’m perfectly happy to help you pay your tuition. When Harry had that apprenticeship with the Wizengamot I paid some of her expenses.”

John shifts, uncomfortable. John’s never liked to take money from their Mum. Not when there are bound to be strings attached. Harry must feel his discomfort and take pity on him, because she intervenes.

“Ease up on Johnny. You know what he’s like: independent, hard-headed. Classic Gryffindor.” John sticks his tongue out at his _Ravenclaw_ sister, and his Mum and Harry laugh.

“What’s new, Johnny?” Harry asks, stirring sugar into her tea with a tap of her wand. “How’s the coffee shop? Is everyone well? How’s…Mrs. Hudson?”

John raises his eyebrows at his sister, smirking. “She’s the same. Oh. And _Irene_ is also doing just fine. She and Kate are still seeing each other. But they’re still keeping things  _very_ casual.”

Mum shakes her head, amused. She and John have spoken before about Harry and Irene’s strange flirtatious relationship that’s never quite gotten off the ground.

Harry’s manicured lilac nails click against her mug as she ducks her head, cheeks pink. “Ah. Um. Good.”

“Yes. Very good,” John teases her. “Maybe you should drop by some weekend. Say _hello_.”

“Maybe I will. You can introduce me to Sherlock while I’m there,” Harry levels back, cheeks red and scowling.

“Oh!” Mum exclaims. “Is that the name of the Muggle boy you’ve been dating? Harry mentioned him!”

John turns to glare at his sister. “You told her about Sherlock?” he hisses, leaning across the table.

Harry sits back, obviously smug to have regained the upper hand. “It may have come up over tea.”

“You could have told me yourself and she wouldn’t have had the chance to,” his Mum huffs. “I don’t mind that he’s a Muggle. Although it’s very progressive of you, dear.”

John and Harry groan. Their mother is well-intentioned when it comes to politics, but she errs on the side of _traditional_ , like many purebloods do.

“Don’t you mock your old mother!” Mum scolds them. “I just want what’s best for you, John, darling. So when you’re hiding this relationship, and I hardly see you, I get worried. You’ve been working so hard with school and this new job, and now you’re asking your sister for legal advice?”

“Yeah, what’s that about, Johnny?” Harry asks through a mouthful of scone – _his_ scone. She must have summoned it off his plate when he wasn’t looking. Apparently she’s decided that the conversation isn’t worth holding off on lunch for.

“Don’t I get attorney-client privilege?” John asks.

He’s answered with a pair of identical rolling eyes, and John relents with a sigh.

“Fine, yes, I know. We’re a family of helpless gossips. I wanted to talk to you about Sherlock, Hare.”

Harry leans towards him, concerned. “And you need legal advice? Is he in some trouble?”

“No, it’s not that. I-“ John glances at his mum, and licks his lips in anticipation. “I had some questions about the Statute of Secrecy.”

“You’re getting _MARRIED_?” Mum yells, clapping her hands together, oblivious to the attention they’re receiving from neighboring tables. John tries to hush her, but she barrels on. “I had no clue you were so serious about him, darling! Oh how _wonderful!_ When can we meet him?”

John is growing redder, glancing around the cafeteria and trying to stammer out a denial over his mother’s excitement, when Harry takes pity and interrupts.

“Don’t be so old fashioned, Ma.” Their mum turns a baleful look upon her daughter, who continues, “you don’t have to marry a Muggle before telling them about magic, anymore.”

John sighs in relief. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I lo- I mean. I really like Sherlock, and I want to tell him about magic, but we haven’t been dating long enough to get married.” Mum looks let down at this, but Harry nods thoughtfully.

“The laws around the Statute are changing pretty fast. Since you have a lawyer in the family,” Harriet winks, “I can pull some strings at the Ministry to fast-track your case. It’ll likely be as simple as filing some paperwork.”

“Really. That easy?” He almost wishes she’d given him an excuse to delay telling Sherlock a while longer.

Harry narrows her eyes. “No need to sound so excited. Unless that’s not the answer you were hoping for?”

John swallows uncomfortably. “It’s just. How do you tell someone that you have supposedly impossible powers and expect them not to run away?”

Harry punches John’s shoulder. “If he didn't run at your personality, then you’ll be fine.”

John pitches a baby carrot from his plate at her. She swats it away, skilled Keeper that she is, and sticks her tongue out at him, crossing her eyes.

“Children!” their Mum scolds. “Stop behaving like common goblins.”

“Sorry Mum.”

“That’s a pejorative phrase, Mum.” 

“Harriet…”

Harry sighs. “Sorry, Mum.”

Harry’s wand vibrates on the table, and she curses. “I have to run. One of my cases is going in front of the Wizengamot, and that alarm means it’s time for me to go make sure my client actually gets to the right court room this time.” She stands, kisses Mum on the cheek and ruffles John’s hair. “Good luck, Johnny. I’ll owl you those papers tonight! And I want to meet Sherlock!” she calls before dashing out of the cafeteria, silver robes fluttering behind her.

John slumps over his tray of food, pushing moodily at his now cold and mushy carrots as he contemplates telling Sherlock about magic.

“You cut your hair,” his mum observes after a long moment of quiet.

John reflexively lifts a hand to his head.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. Is it…is that okay?” he feels suddenly unsure.

His mum reaches out to smooth down his bangs. “Of course, it is. You look very handsome.”

John swallows. “You’re not upset that I’m…flouting the traditions of the generations of Watsons before me?” John asks, throat tight. He didn’t know until this moment that he needed his Mum to be okay with the change. Dad wasn’t around anymore to have a say, after all.

“Oh, Johnny,” his mum sighs. “No, sweetie. You’re just growing up. And into a _wonderful_ young man, I might add.”

John hates it, but he feels a hot pressure in the back of his eyes, and has to blink it away. “Do you think Dad would mind?”

His mum lays a hand on his cheek. “Not at _all_. He would be so proud of you, darling. Just like I am.”

John nods, throat feeling too thick to say anything in return.

His mum pats him fondly. “Now tell me all about your Muggle man. I want to know  _everything_.”

John can’t help but smile, thinking about how much his Mum will like Sherlock. How could she not? He’s brash and witty and sharp and gorgeous and _wonderful_ and—

Mum chuckles and John blinks from his thoughts to see steam come out from their pot of tea, water having freshly boiled.

“That good?” she asks, and bursts into laughter. John turns beet red, and buries his face in his hands.

 

* * *

 

When John apparates home from his long day at St Mungo’s, the Statute of Secrecy paperwork is waiting for him, just as Harry promised.

This is it, then. How, exactly, should John tell Sherlock about magic? John takes out some parchment and makes a list of ideas.

 

\- drop it into casual conversation

\- wait for criminal to throw a punch and defend Sherlock with magic (romantic)

\- write it on a cake - funny?

\- apparate us to candlelit dinner in Paris. Sherlock so swept off feet he doesn't question how we got to eiffel tour

 

John is sighing over his pitiful list when his phone rings, Sherlock’s name flashing on the screen. Taking a deep breath to gather his courage, John answers.

“Hello?”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounds tight and careful. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

John swallows. “Yeah. I just got home from work.”

There’s a heavy pause over the line. “No you didn’t.”

“What?”

“No you didn’t just get back from work. I’ve been standing at the door to your flat for an hour and there’s no other entrances. I checked.”

John frowns, keeping the phone pressed against his cheek as he leaves his flat and jogs down the stairs. “You’re at my place?” he asks.

“Yes. Where are you?” Sherlock asks, annoyed. John opens the front door of his building and finds Sherlock standing there, phone at his ear and mouth agape. “How did you-“ Sherlock starts to ask, lowering his phone. He takes a step back, frowning. “What are you _wearing_?”

John looks down and realizes in horror that he’d forgotten to change out of his work robes. They’re the standard lime green that all the Healers wear at Mungo’s. “Um. Robes?” John says, not knowing how else to answer. Merlin, is this it? Is this how Sherlock finds out? With John wearing a lime green set of robes and Sherlock on his doorstep?

“Come in,” John tells him.

“No,” Sherlock says.

“What?”

“I said _no._ No!”

John raises his hands to calm Sherlock, who looks half-mad as he starts to shout. It comes pouring out like his wand has finally snapped.

“No more of this! No more pretending that I don’t know something odd is going on! No more pretending I don’t notice that you’re the oddest person I’ve ever met! No more gargoyles and Merlins and purple toads!” Sherlock tosses his arms in the air. “Do you know where I was an hour ago?”

John hesitates, palms sweating. This is it. Sherlock knows something, and now is the time to come clean. “Tell me.”

“I was at St Bart’s Hospital.”

“Oh.”

“They’ve never heard of you.”

John covers his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I really think you should come inside, Sherlock.”

“No!” Sherlock yells again. “I don’t even know who you are! Apparently, nobody does!”

“Sherlock, I can explain.”

“Can you? Because I called my brother.

John frowns. “The one who works for your – for the government?

Sherlock’s eye twitches. He must have noticed John’s slip. “He _is_ the government. He looked you up, using all his databases and resources. And you know what he found?”

John feels his pulse spike. “What did he find?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“ _Nothing._ All your records are sealed from age eleven onwards. Classified! So are your sisters’, and both your parents. That has _never_ happened to him before, his security clearance is infinite. The British government knows you exist, but they don’t _know anything about you_.”

John licks his lips. “If you come up to my flat, I could explain better,” John starts.

With a groan of annoyance, Sherlock storms past John into the entryway of the building, and John shuts the door to the outside, glad that they’re no longer at risk of drawing a public crowd. Sherlock starts pacing in the foyer of the building, ruffling at his hair.

“At first I thought maybe you were just sleeping with other people, but I would see that in an instant. Then I thought maybe this was some kind of con and I was your mark. But you’ve had plenty of time to gain my trust and you’ve never brought up any ‘business interests’ or ‘investment opportunities,’ so that theory is out.”

John watches in horror as Sherlock paces furiously, hands pulling at his hair and fingers twitching.  “Sherlock. I had no idea my keeping secrets was bothering you so much. You seemed so calm last week when we talked about it.”

Sherlock throws his hands in the air. “I LIED! Okay? I’m a drama queen with a terrific poker face! You might as well know that about me, if we’re airing out secrets. Or are we?! You said you needed time. How much time? What could it possibly be that you can’t trust me with? I have more theories, but that’s all they are. _Theories_.”

“Sherlock.”

“I thought I could let it go. I thought I could give you space and let you come to me on your own time, but it turns out that I can’t. It turns out I have trust issues the size of this entire planet and I’ve fallen for a man keeping a secret just as big!"

Sherlock’s eyes are bright when he meets John’s gaze. Slowly, John approaches him, and carefully folds him into his arms. After a tense moment, Sherlock slumps and tucks his face into John’s shoulder. His hands reach around to clutch John’s back. He’s shaking, and still breathing hard. “This isn’t going to work, John. Not if you dodge all my texts, not if there’s something making it _this hard_ for you to be honest with me about yourself.”

“I know,” John whispers, aching. “And I’m ready to tell you, now. I’m sorry this was causing you so much pain.”

Sherlock takes a shuddering breath and backs away, out of John’s arms.

"I was serious about coming all the way into my flat. It might help explain." John takes his hand and starts to lead him up the stairs. “Would you mind starting by telling me your theories?” John asks. He’s still desperately looking for a way in which he doesn’t have to actually _say_ the words. Trailing John on the path towards his flat, Sherlock starts making guesses.

“Witness protection.”

“No.”

“Ties to the mafia.”

John laughs. “No.”

“Some kind of…secret society, possibly a cult.”

“Getting closer.”  

Sherlock’s face scrunches unhappily. “Those are all my best ones. My last theory…is pretty outlandish. It shouldn’t even be scientifically possible.”

John feels his heart rate increase. They stop in front of the door to John’s flat. His very magical, filled with wizarding posters and potions, flat. “What is it?” he breathes. “I bet it’s not so impossible.” 

“You’re…”

“I'm...”

“Some kind of…”

“Yes?” John urges, taking Sherlock’s hand.

“Time traveler.”

John pauses.

“…Um.”

“Specifically from the medieval ages.”

Sherlock pulls a small notebook out of his coat pocket and starts to rifle through the pages, scanning hand-written notes and reciting them at a furious pace.

“Subject JW practices regular use of an old-fashioned quill for writing. No contemporary fashion sense to speak of. Inability to use even basic technology. Apparent familiarity with variety of fowl and other odd creatures. Little to no popular culture knowledge. Little familiarity with London streets. Odd speech patterns and idioms-“

John is shaking. Sherlock glances up from his notebook to see John stifling a fit of giggles. He looks mortified and starts turning red. “Oh my God. Oh my _God_ I sound like a lunatic! Of course you’re not from the past, time travel isn’t possible, and you haven’t shown any other signs that would indicate delusion or mental illness. What on Earth was I _thinking_ -“

Tamping down on his involuntary laughter, John lays a sympathetic hand on Sherlock’s arm. “No, no. It’s actually a pretty good guess. It was during the 14th Century that wizards went into hiding, and the development of our culture diverged from Muggles.”

Sherlock blinks down at him, eyebrows scrunched together in that way John loves. “What?”

John pushes open the door to his flat and gestures inside.

There are posters of the Holyhead Harpies and Puddlemere United on the wall, a stack of _Daily Prophet_ s spread across the coffee table.

The dishes are doing themselves in the sink while Bill’s potions kit simmers and bubbles sluggishly on the floor next to the television.

His and Irene’s broomsticks are leaning against the wall beside their traveling cloaks. There’s a jar of Floo Powder on the mantel and Bill’s owl is sleeping on the perch in her cage.

John doesn’t look at any of it.

He watches Sherlock closely, whose eyes are wide with disbelief as they flit across John’s flat.

Aside from his eyes, Sherlock remains perfectly still. John doesn’t think he’s even breathing. When Sherlock makes to step forward into the room, he sways and his knees buckle, and John has to catch him before he collapses on the floor. Sherlock takes in a huge, shuddering breath. He exhales, then takes another, eyes still roving rapidly around the flat as he begins to hyperventilate.

“Easy, easy,” John soothes, leading Sherlock to the couch with an arm around his back. His weight is heavy against John’s side and his head continues to rove around the room wildly. John settles him on the couch and sits beside him, rubbing soothing circles on his back as Sherlock’s eyes screw shut and he starts to shake his head from side to side. “Breathe, hon,” John encourages. He summons a glass of water from the kitchen because, well, fuck it. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and anyhow John is about to tell him that magic is real and his boyfriend is a wizard.

“Are you sure you’re not in the mafia?” Sherlock chokes out, and John chuckles.

“I’m sure. Can you open your eyes for me, babe?”

Sherlock shakes his head more violently. “Can’t do that,” he gasps.

“Why?”

“I’m afraid the magic pictures will still be there if I do.”

 “Ignore them. It’s just you and me.”

Sherlock moves his head towards John’s voice, peeking one eye open cautiously. With a deep breath in, Sherlock opens his eyes all the way. John smiles.

“There you are. See? Not so bad.”

“Magic can be a big shock to Muggles,” says the portrait of Bill’s great Uncle Guillaume from against the opposite wall. Sherlock shrieks and dives off of the couch for cover, knocking over the glass of water in the process and shattering it.

John curses loudly and throws a vicious silencing charm at Gil, annoyed by his poor timing.

Sherlock whimpers in pain and John turns to him instantly, helping his boyfriend off the ground. It looks like his hand was cut on the broken water glass as he caught his fall. John hisses in sympathy as he gathers Sherlock’s injured hand, assessing the wound and looking for any other cuts or injuries. Sherlock’s eyes are locked on the portrait of Guillaume, now gagged with his own dumb ascot and scowling furiously at John. John ignores it.

Sherlock's cut is nasty, but it’s nothing John can’t handle. He pulls his wand from the pocket of his work robes and waits until Sherlock meets his eyes. “Do you trust me?” John asks.

Sherlock’s eyes are still wide with lingering uncertainty, but his nod is sure.

John starts by vanishing any glass or contaminants from the gash with a murmured disinfecting spell. Then he begins to heal, guiding Sherlock’s flesh as it knits neatly back together, a soft white glow illuminating the tip of his wand. Sherlock gasps, and John looks up briefly to meet Sherlock’s eyes, wide and amazed. “John,” he whispers. “How are you- this isn’t-“

John hushes him softly. “Shhh. Making sure it doesn't scar is difficult. I have to concentrate.” Sherlock is silent as John finishes his work, the scar on Sherlock’s hand fading steadily to pink until it disappears altogether. Like there was never a wound at all. Satisfied, John finishes by laying a kiss on the spot, feeling just slightly smug.

“How did you do that?” Sherlock breathes, bringing his hand right in front of his eyes to inspect it for clues. “There aren’t even any callouses. The skin is brand new. How?”

John licks his lips. “I’m a wizard.”

Sherlock looks between his eyes for confirmation. “You’re telling the truth.”

“Yeah.”

Silence lasts only for the amount of time it takes Sherlock to draw breath.

“Your flatmates obviously know, this room is full of magical artifacts. Oh! They’re wizards too, _obviously_ , you all went to the same school. A magic school? That means Irene must be a wizard, how did I not realize that? And if there’s a magic school, that must mean there are more of you, enough to justify a whole institution. And if there are wizard teachers and students then there must be wizard doctors. That’s why your record is sealed, and why they don’t know you at Bart’s, because you work at a magical hospital, and that’s why you were able to heal me just now. But back to the flat. If the cauldron and the paintings are magical, does that mean the brooms are as well? Flying broomsticks? For recreation as well as transportation, obviously. It would explain why you have the body of an athlete but know less than I do about football. Are the owls pets or to harvest potions ingredients? Does everyone in your world wear such hideous clothing? Where is the magical hospital? Is there a magical town that nobody knows about? How do you keep it hidden? Is there-“

“Sherlock. Sherlock- SHERLOCK!” John shouts over his boyfriend's frenzied deductions. It seems that Sherlock needed only one crucial piece of data in order to extrapolate the entirety of the wizarding world.

Sherlock blinks as his eyes come back into focus. He claps his hands on John’s cheeks and says, firmly: “Everything finally makes sense.”

Lips squished between Sherlock’s hands, John’s speech sounds a bit funny when he replies, “I’m glad.” It sounds more like ‘Um glud’

Sherlock nods. “Also, none of this makes any sense. Explain.”

John pries his hands off his face with a giggle. It's a relief to have Sherlock on the inside of this secret, and he feels nearly giddy. “How about I show you instead?”

Sherlock’s eyes light up. “Yes. Do that.”

This is terrifying, but at least it’s going to be fun. “Well, I can’t take you anywhere magical dressed like _that_ ,” John tells Sherlock, eyeing his Muggle street clothes critically, and climbing to his feet, dragging Sherlock with him. “Bill is about your height.”

John unlocks Bill’s door with a simple charm and immediately starts rifling through his closet for something that will suit Sherlock without drawing attention to them. He pulls out a set of casual navy robes and flourishes them in front of Sherlock triumphantly.

“Oh, good.” Sherlock says. “I thought perhaps everyone in your society wore neon all the time.”

Sticking out his tongue at his smirking boyfriend, John throws the robes at his face. “Put these over your clothes, you poncy smartarse.” John orders, marching into his own room to change out of his Mungo’s garb.

They meet in the hallway a minute later, and John stops in his tracks the second he catches sight of his boyfriend. Sherlock looks _good._ The shoulders are too wide and the hem an inch too short, but there’s something undeniably captivating about Sherlock in wizarding clothing. They should stop at a tailor’s while they’re in Diagon.

“Maybe I need to disillusion us after all,” John says thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?”

“Disillusionment. It’s a spell that makes you sort of invisible. I picked the most inconspicuous robes in Bill’s closet so we wouldn’t get too much attention, but you’re still the sexiest thing anyone’s ever seen,” John tells Sherlock, lifting his arm in the air and encouraging Sherlock to spin under it. Sherlock laughs as he does so, face pink.

“If you say so. Where are we going?” Sherlock’s curiosity is insatiable, and John is about to hand him the key to one of the biggest mysteries London has to offer.

John grins. “Diagon Alley, of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience waiting for this chapter! One more to go...  
> Edit! I wrote 4,000 words tonight after posting this...so if you haven't seen the final chapter by Sunday, you are encouraged to poke me or something and tell me to finish this fic already!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware of schmoop

Most methods of magical transportation are either too uncomfortable or too conspicuous for Muggle London. Since Diagon is only a few streets away from his flat, John suggests they walk. He decides against disillusioning both of them, considering he’s seen stranger outfits on London streets before.

Sherlock peppers him with questions as they walk, often not stopping talking long enough to hear John’s replies all the way to their conclusion.

When they reach Charing Cross and the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, John stops, and Sherlock keeps walking. John watches, amused, as his boyfriend continues to walk down the road, speculating away about the mechanisms behind wand movements and magical incantations and their implications in the sciences of the non-magical world. After not too long, Sherlock stops and calls his name, looking around in confusion for John.

“Why have you stopped?” he asks as he spins on the pavement and returns to John’s side. His eyes slide between the two buildings on either side of the Leaky.

“We’re here.” John gestures at the pub, fascinated to witness the potency of the anti-Muggle charm.

Sherlock scoffs, eyes not quite focused as they glance towards the pub. “That’s just a broken-down shop. What do you mean, ‘we’re here?’” A wrinkle appears between Sherlock’s brow as he says thoughtfully, “Do you know…I lost a criminal here, once. I was chasing him through London and he just…disappeared.”

“He must have been a wizard,” John says, steering Sherlock so that he’s facing the pub and placing a hand on his back as he stands slightly behind him, “Because this is The Leaky Cauldron, address: number one, Diagon Alley.”

Sherlock gasps, stepping back and into John’s touch as his eyes widen, then blinking as though someone had just flashed a very bright light into his eyes. “Where did that building come from?”

“It was always there. What did you see?” John asks, curious.

“First just a door. Then the sign, and the windows. It was like a different building was pushing its way out from behind broken-down shop. Did you put a spell on me?”

“Almost the opposite. There’s a spell called the Fidelius Charm that can hide things, entire houses and neighborhoods, unless you get told by the right person where the thing is. I think that’s sort of how this works. Except with Diagon, every wizard is a de facto secret keeper until they reveal the existence of the magical world to a Muggle. Like you.”

Sherlock turns eyes so balefully confused on John that he looks pained by his lack of knowledge.

John grimaces. “Yeah, I got a _Poor_ on my written exam when we covered concealment and unplottables in fifth year. I was busy trying to get off with this witch named Sarah. We’ll stop by Flourish and Blotts and pick you up a book on magical theory, eh?”

Sherlock’s eyes instantly brighten. “There’s a bookstore?”

John groans, already regretting what he’s just done. How is he going to get Sherlock to spend any time with _John_ when he’s just been introduced to the literature and scholarly writing of an entire previously unknown culture?

* * *

“You have to put one of them back.”

“John!” Sherlock’s lip nearly wobbles, eyes wide and pleading.

John groans, pulling out his money sack and flourishing it in front of Sherlock. “We counted how much I have. Twice. Nine Galleons, eleven Sickles, and three Knuts. That’s worth at least a week of meals, Merlin help me, but only _four_ books.” John looks over Sherlock’s stack with a critical eye.

 

_A Complete Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling (understandable)

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ by Newton Scamander (unexpected)

_Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science_ by Argo Pyrites (predictable)

_Magical Misdemeanours in the Modern Law_ by Arsenius Bode (predictable)

_Legal Guidelines for the Manufacture and Sale of Magical Poisons_ by Phyllida Smith (worrying)

 

John tells him, “Dump the Scamander and the Waffling, I still have those from my Hogwarts days. We can pick them up from my old room at Watson House later this week, if you’re willing to endure tea-time with my Mum. And if you swap out the Pyrites for a second hand version, then you can also get those recent editions of _The Practical Potioneer_ I saw you eyeing.”

Sherlock is reluctant to leave the bookstore behind, but he squeezes John’s hand when they leave the shop, and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek at John’s long-suffering expression.

“What next?” he asks, bright and enthusiastic about exploring Diagon. John had thought Sherlock would be overwhelmed, after his near panic at John’s flat. Instead, he seems to be happily gathering an infinite amount of new data, shouting out a new deduction or revelation every few minutes. 

John counts what’s left of his pocket change: a mere 12 Sickles and 3 Knuts, but more than he’d been expecting. In fact, it should be just enough for…

“Speedy’s.”

Sherlock looks ready to protest.

“Did you know it was part of a chain?” John asks innocently, and tugs on Sherlock’s hand to begin leading him to the corner of Diagon and Horizont Alley. Sherlock stops pouting when he realizes that John is not leading them back towards the Leaky Cauldron.

That doesn’t mean the journey is an easy one, though. John barely manages to get his boyfriend to continue walking once he’s spotted Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, and again when Sherlock sees Gringotts and bleats that they have to stop to take out money for more books.

Eventually John manages, after some careful and patient negotiations, to get Sherlock in front of a familiar red awning. John gestures at it with a “ta-da!” motion.

“It looks just like Speedy’s,” Sherlock says with a frown.

“It is Speedy’s. I originally applied to work this half of the operation, but Mrs. H wanted me on the Muggle side, so Irene could train me,” John explains as he opens the door for Sherlock.

The layout is the same as the Muggle Speedy’s, but the décor is different: more mismatched chairs, moving photographs on the walls, and a Security Sneakoscope over the door as well as a bell. John ushers Sherlock into a seat approximately where he would usually sit if they were in Muggle space and goes to the counter to order them drinks. A pumpkin fizz for himself and a mug of soothing nettle tea for Sherlock. He even scrapes together a measly tip for the Hogwarts-age witch behind the counter, who looks unimpressed at the single Knut and Muggle five pence piece.

John joins Sherlock at his chair just in time to intercept their drinks, which are soaring towards the table at an alarming rate.

After examining their drinks, Sherlock leans across the table intently. “Where are we? Why does this place look just like Speedy’s? How is there a whole city inside London that nobody knows about? Except for the people that do, that is.” 

John shrugs. “Wizarding space. It’s all folded up inside the Muggle world. Bit genius, really. Wizards came up with a way to hide where nobody would look: where there was already something else to look at. I’ve read that you can fold space up to seven times, if you’re powerful enough to cast the charm. The Speedy’s you’re familiar with, occupies at least two other places that I know of.”

“Does that mean that we’re in a Speedy’s right now, but we’re also…at Speedy’s?” Sherlock asks, frowning at his own phrasing.

John nods, taking a sip from his pumpkin juice.

“But what about Mrs. Hudson? If she owns the Speedy’s on Baker Street, then who owns the wizard bit?” Sherlock asks.

John cracks a smile. “Who do you think?”

“No.”

“Yep.”

“ _No._ No! First Irene and your other flatmates, now you’re telling me _Mrs. Hudson_ is magical, too?! Who else is a wizard, Molly?”

“Who?”

Sherlock ignores him and groans, burying his face in his hands. “My whole life is a lie. Mrs. Hudson simply cannot be a witch.”

John giggles. “Sherlock, think about it. Where is your flat, in relation to Speedy’s?”

“Above it,” Sherlock answers, although he looks uncertain, now. John nods to confirm his answer.

“And where does Mrs. Hudson live?”

“Downstairs.”

John waits for the Knut to drop.

“Oh my GOD. How did I not notice that!” There’s pain on Sherlock’s face as he tries to wrap his mind around this revelation. John pats his hand sympathetically.

“Combination of a mild Confundus charm and simple inexperience with folded space. If you’re interested, I’m pretty sure Mike has a book on non-Euclidian geometry and wizarding physics that he’ll let you borrow. He was obsessed with the mechanics of wizard space when he came to Hogwarts and got stuck in a vanishing step. He and Irene were both raised without magic, you know.”

They launch into a discussion on wizarding genealogy, which leads to John’s family history. John promises a visit to the Watson ancestral home to meet his mum and sister sometime soon, and so they can browse through John’s dusty collection of textbooks.

* * *

They’re still talking when the shop closes hours later, their discussions moving between theoretical and personal, from wandlore to John’s favorite subjects in school.

“What does magic feel like?”

“What's it feel like?” John repeats, as they stroll down Diagon Alley towards the Leaky. “I’ve never had to think about it before.”

“How could you _not_?” Sherlock asks, exasperated. John giggles.

“It’s always been a part of my life, and I never met anyone who asked me to analyze it.” John pushes his shoulder against Sherlock’s, threading their fingers together. “In my house growing up…magic was a certainty. It was as certain as…that the Earth goes ‘round the sun.”

Sherlock looks skeptical. “Does it?”

John laughs, his turn to be the incredulous one. “Even Muggles know that. Didn’t you take astronomy in school?”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkles. “Astronomy is archaic. If I learnt any of it I must have deleted it.”

“Well, it was required at Hogwarts.”

Sherlock smirks. “Did they cover astrology as well?”

John thinks of batty old Trelawney lecturing on star signs and planetary charts. “No, that was an extracurricular.”

They’ve reached the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron, and John gets inspired. “Do you want to try Magical transport instead of walking back to Baker Street?”

Sherlock cocks his head curiously. “What are you suggesting?”

John grins, taking a pinch of floo powder from a cup on the mantel. “Travel by fire.” He tosses the powder into the fireplace and the embers rage up into tall green flames.

Sherlock steps back in surprise, putting a hand out to shield his face from heat that does not come. “I’m guessing it was something more than boric acid in that cup to turn the flames green?”

“Floo powder. You step into the flames and announce your destination, and it’ll take you to the registered fireplace that’s closest.” John brushes his fingers through the flames to show Sherlock that it’s safe.

Sherlock is shaking his head, looking horrified at the sight of John’s hand in the fire. “I’m sorry, but no. The magical pet store was great and thank you for the books, but I think stepping into a great pit of fire is my limit for one day. I’ll walk.”

“C’mon,” John cajoles teasingly. “Walking is boring. If you really don’t want to try the floo today, then what do you think of apparition?” 

“A magical form of teleportation, through which a qualified witch or wizard can disappear from one location and reappear in another almost instantaneously.”

John nods, trying to maintain a serious expression. “That is the literal dictionary definition, yes.” (Sherlock had speed-read a single book in the section of Flourish and Blotts dedicated to non-magical parents and partners before declaring that he was ready for more advanced material and striding towards the nearest clerk to ask where he could find books on transfiguration theory.)

Sherlock considers for a moment, then nods his head. “Acceptable.”

John takes Sherlock’s elbow. “Technically, this is enough contact to take you along with me when I disapparate. But the closer we are, the more comfortable the journey will be for you.”

John gets an eye-roll in response to this line, but Sherlock nonetheless steps closer until they’re pressed against each other in an embrace. John smiles sunnily up at his boyfriend, who scoffs and looks away.

“Still trust me, Mr. Holmes?” John asks.

“I suppose I do, Mr. Watson.”

“Brilliant. Hold on tight.”

_Crack!_

“Oof!” Sherlock sways towards John, clutching at his shoulders as he regains his balance.

John takes a moment to orient himself. Baker Street. The light is dim, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. Sherlock’s flat, in the exact spot John had been envisioning between the two chairs by the fireplace. He’d always been an excellent shot on the Quidditch pitch, and it had served him well when apparition lessons began.

“Hi again, handsome. First impressions of apparition?”

“Uncomfortable, but expedient.”

John nods at the apt assessment. Now that they’ve arrived, he could let Sherlock go. But he quite likes having the man in his arms. He hasn’t held him properly in days and days. John wonders how, despite that, there’s a sense of ease between them, and comfort.

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock murmurs, leaning his forehead down against John’s, apparently equally content to stay in this embrace a while.

“When I woke up today, I was worrying about my secret coming between us. But it’s the opposite, isn’t it? It was the secret, keeping the distance. Now you finally know the real me.”

Sherlock knocks his head against John’s with a stern expression. “Of course it’s the opposite. All the things that made me doubt about you, or made me wonder why you wouldn’t let yourself get close to me, they were all about hiding this part of your life. Even if it is a ridiculous secret.” 

“Your fourth theory was that I was a time-traveler,” John teases.

“I did have all the data!” Sherlock insists.

John wants to kiss him, so he does.

It starts out light and playful, but soon becomes intense, their motions filled with relief and meaning and passion. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s back and tugs him closer, so they’re pressed together and there’s nothing left between them. Finally.

“Sherlock!” John gasps as he feels a leg slide between his own. His cock twitches, already halfway to hard. “Do you remember,” John gulps, as Sherlock licks at the exposed collarbone at the opening of his robes, “last time we were here.”

Sherlock hums and starts to suck a bruise on the side of John’s neck like a bloody vampire. Oh, vampires! John needs to remember that Sherlock will want to hear about them sometime.

Sherlock lips at the shell of John’s ear and John groans, guttural, and tries hazily to finish his thought. “Last week I said…I didn’t want to have sex yet…because I was hiding something from you?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock answers, tearing his mouth away from John’s neck to look him in the eye. His eyes are smoldering and his hair is already a mess from John’s fingers running through it. “I remember.”

“Well, I’m done hiding….So…. Can I take you to bed?”

Sherlock grins, and smacks a kiss on John’s lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Bloody cocky git.

With a playful growl, John heaves Sherlock over his shoulder and carries him to the bedroom, shaking under Sherlock’s laughter all the way there.

John is more careful with him as he lowers Sherlock down onto the bed and crawls on top of him. Sherlock doesn’t seem the least bit nervous, but John, at least, is mindful that this is only Sherlock’s second time ever being this intimate with someone.

In the end, it’s easy. A natural progression from the physical and emotional affection between them that they’ve been waiting ages to make.

* * *

John comes, collapsing beside Sherlock in a coma of oxytocin, and feeling like there might be Nargles in his brain and glow worms in his heart.

John glances at Sherlock beside him, and finds Sherlock looking back. The second their eyes meet, they collapse into a mutual fit of giggles.

“That was…”

“Quick?” John giggles.

“Quick,” Sherlock agrees through his own laughter.

“Still good,” John insists. “Just…finished pretty soon for something I spent so much time thinking about!” John chokes out between laughs. Sherlock giggles in return, then rolls onto his side, clapping a hand onto John’s blond-haired chest.

He pins John with a look that is attempting to be serious, but keeps breaking into a smile. “Don’t worry. I have a feeling the second time will last longer. _Maybe_ we’ll even get my trousers all the way off. But first, I have to clean off.”

John grins, and waves a lazy hand to cast a quick _Scourgify_. It’s not as powerful as it would’ve been with a wand, but it’s enough to keep Sherlock in the bed beside him, and that’s all that matters. “There are some perks to dating a wizard, Mr. Holmes.”

“Mr. Watson,” Sherlock growls. “I find it deadly-sexy when you do impossible things.”

John growls and pulls Sherlock on top of him. “Oh yeah?” he asks. “Then you’ll _love_ this one,” John says, and snaps his finger to vanish the remainder of their clothing into the corner of the room (a skill it had taken him months to perfect, to great acclaim in bed). John rolls them over and leans in for a thorough snog.

* * *

Their second time having sex together is just as fun as the first, and but not nearly as quick. John gets a chance to show Sherlock all the _magical_ things he can do with his mouth, and Sherlock returns the favor.

* * *

Their third time (and last in the night’s marathon) is different. It's early morning when Sherlock rolls onto a dozing John and whispers in his ear, “Again?”

John pretends to protest, citing the early hour and teasing Sherlock for his apparent insatiability, but he was ready to go the second he reached consciousness and felt Sherlock’s breath tickling at his ear.

It starts out slightly sleepy, and only builds in intensity as it stays slow, and sensuous, and powerful. It’s like guzzling amortentia straight from Sherlock’s lips.

As they rock together, John feels a sensation building in his veins that he used to think was magic but now thinks might be love, inspired by the gorgeous, luxurious, ridiculous creature above him. John climaxes before he has a chance to think about what the feeling might mean, and Sherlock follows soon after, moaning wordlessly with pleasure.

Hazy and satisfied, John has enough presence of mind to clean them up as best he can before dropping off to sleep, Sherlock’s limbs curling around John like an affectionate Devil’s Snare.

* * *

“John.” John feels something pushing at his shoulders. “Jo-ooohnnn” a deep voice sing-songs. “Wake uuu-uuuup.”

“Mmmmm….time for more sex?” John asks groggily, stretching out his limbs as he blinks his eyes open. Sherlock’s face is hovering inches above his own, a fond smile on his face.

“Later. Definitely. But right now, I think there’s something you’ll want to see.”

“Are you sure?” John growls, voice low and gravelly with sleep as he rolls Sherlock onto his back playfully. “I think I’m ready for another round now.” John nips at Sherlock’s chin as his boyfriend giggles, pushing gently at John’s chest.

“John, _look_.”

“Okay, okay. What is it?” John asks, rolling onto his back and blinking. The ceiling – there’s something on the ceiling. Curling tendrils of…John doesn’t know what.

It’s too dark to see properly, so John rolls out of the bed to open the curtains.

His feet land on something unexpectedly cool and soft. They look like vines. Long green vines, winding along the floor and crawling up the bedposts to the ceiling. They don’t _look_ dangerous, or like any of the many poisonous, sometimes temperamental plants John has encountered in his studies of Herbology.

“Look, John! They lead out the bedroom door.”

John turns to see that Sherlock is right. The vines converge on the door, squeezing underneath it and through the sides. Sherlock is reaching for the doorknob when John calls, “Stop!”

Sherlock freezes.

“We don’t know anything about these plants, Sherlock. And I’m unarmed. And naked.”

“What good is a gun against a vine?”

John rolls his eyes. “I meant my _wand_. I left it in my trousers. Hence why I’m both _unarmed_ and _naked_.”

Sherlock tosses John a bathrobe with a grin, and wraps another one – red and silky - around himself. “Yes. By my calculations, your trousers ended up somewhere in the hallway. Shall we look for them?”

John bites his lip as he ties the borrowed blue bathrobe around his waist. He doesn’t want to risk angering whatever obviously magical plant this is, but he’s no good stuck in here without his wand, either.

“It’s just a plant. They’re harmless,” Sherlock wheedles. One of the nearby tendrils reaches out to wrap itself around Sherlock’s pinky finger. “And friendly, apparently. Are magical plants sentient?”

John inspects the curly green vine that’s wrapped loosely around Sherlock’s finger. It has the bud of a flower at the end of it. Yellow, and looking ready to open at any moment. John shuts his eyes in disbelief, because he suddenly knows exactly what this is.

_Best to get it over with,_ he thinks after a pained moment. He pushes open the door wide, allowing a wide-eyed Sherlock to step out first.

“Oh, _John_.”

John pads silently behind Sherlock as they follow the vines out the bedroom door and into the sitting room of 221B. There are more flower buds in the hallway, starting to open as Sherlock weaves through them. Sherlock reaches the center of the sitting room, morning light streaming through the front windows, and does a full turn in wonder at the explosion of plant life.

Daisies. Hundreds.

Yellow and white.

Vines of them climbing up every chair and table, winding up the lamp, between books, over the mantel and even peeking through the eyes of the skull. They sway gently, seeming to open wider for Sherlock, shine brighter as they wave at him. Sherlock laughs at the swell of color, delighted.

John is mortified.

“Daisies! Magical ones! Are these all for me?” Sherlock asks.

“I didn’t mean to,” John answers, face hot with embarrassment. “My magic does this sometimes. It likes to misbehave when I get emotional. Usually glass breaks when I’m angry if I don’t have a proper outlet, or people’s possessions catch fire. But when I’m around you…nicer things usually happen. Tea. Candles. Flowers, apparently.”

John covers his eyes, unwilling to meet Sherlock’s gaze, or spend any more time looking at the riot of flowers filling the room. This is _outrageously_ over-the top, even for John. It must have happened during their last bout of love-making in the early morning, or perhaps when he was falling asleep on a cloud of bliss afterwards.

John was so lost in loving Sherlock he didn’t even notice.

“Are you embarrassed?” Sherlock asks, stepping closer to John and gently prying his hands from his face.

John looks pitifully up at Sherlock. “Of course, I am. This is the cheesiest, showiest thing I’ve ever seen, and I don’t even get to claim it was intentional!”

“Don’t be embarrassed. I like them.”

“Come on!” John cries, voice high. “I’m over here trying _very_ hard to be this athletic, repressed type and I’m making bloody _flowers_ grow at your feet I’m so emotional?”

“I love you.”

“...What?”

Sherlock shrugs, eyes clear and unbothered by John’s mortification.

“That’s what the flowers mean, right? So. I love you. If I was a wizard, then after last night, this flat would be full of…honey bees and unsolved murders. Because I love you, too.” Sherlock sounds so matter of fact about it, like these aren’t the most stunning, precious words John has ever heard in his life.

John reaches up on his tiptoes to kiss Sherlock, fiercely, because he worries if he doesn’t share all the light inside him in some tangible way, that he’s going to burst. So he pours that light out through his lips, and fingers, and toes, whispering out _“I love you_ ,” between kisses, because that’s what’s been inside of him trying to get out for ages now. Maybe since their first day together.

John breaks off the kiss when he feels Sherlock start to shake under his hands, and hears the beginning rumble of Sherlock’s laugh.

“What?” John asks, eyes still shut as he unconsciously mirrors the smile on Sherlock’s mouth, trying to persuade him back to snogging with little nips and pecks. Sherlock breaks into a full-blown giggle and John finally settles down on his heels, opens his eyes to ask—

More daisies. Fresh chains of them, curling around Sherlock’s wrists and forearms and blooming atop his hair into a riotous crown of curls and petals as flowers open before his eyes.

John groans and covers his face with his hands. “Bloody _b_ _ee prince._ You cannot tell Irene or Bill about this _ever._ They will tease me until the day I die.” 

Sherlock giggles some more, and plucks two flowers from his wrists to plant behind John’s ears.

* * *

“You’ll be fine, Sherlock. I promise.”

Sherlock turns a skeptical eye on him.

John chuckles. “Shall we try it together, then?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Remember to keep your elbows tucked in.” John takes Sherlock’s hand before ducking the pair of them into the green flames of Mrs. Hudson’s fireplace (upstairs only has electric) and calling, “Golpalott Terrrace, number twenty-one!” He holds Sherlock securely at his side as they spin through London grates, shutting his eyes against the dizzying sight.

They stumble out into John’s flat to a collective cheer from Irene, Bill, and Mike. Now that Sherlock has been introduced to magic, he can finally attend their regular movie night at John’s magic-infested flat.

Sherlock, of course, slots into the group with enviable grace, and it isn’t long before he’s begun interrogating Irene for details of the gang’s exploits at Hogwarts and sweet-talking his way through Mike’s and Bill’s bookshelves.

They’re having an altogether lovely night when Sherlock asks.

“Where’s John?”

“Uh. I’m right here, babe,” John says, shooting a confused look at his boyfriend.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Obviously. I was referring to Irene’s dog, John.” Sherlock gestures towards the red collar and leash hanging on a peg next to the door.

“Oh, right!” John squeaks, ears turning red. “I’d forgotten about him.”

Bill guffaws, while Irene and Mike have the courtesy to stifle their amusement.

Sherlock looks at them oddly. When he returns his eyes towards John, he’s met instead with the sight of a golden-haired German Shepherd with a very familiar pair of blue eyes.

John barks, tongue lolling out of his mouth and tail wagging.

“You cannot be _serious_.” Sherlock squats to get a closer look in John’s eyes. “The physics _alone-_ ”

John gives another happy bark, and licks Sherlock’s face.

“…You’re lucky I’m a dog person,” Sherlock grumbles, wiping at his sticky face.

“Mate, out of the two of you, I think John’s the dog-person,” Bill cackles. “Get it? Dog- _person_!”

John ignores Bill in favor of nuzzling against Sherlock’s hand. He thumps his tail furiously against the floor and barks again, giving Sherlock his best doggy smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left regular comments on this fic, you were always the highlight of my week! While I have your attention, I have a quick question for you lovely beautiful readers of mine. 
> 
> I have a few johnlock fic outlines in my folder…let me know in the comments which of the following you’d like to see from me next! Two of them involve Harry Watson, as I’ve decided I want to shower this fandom with Harry fics that write her in a positive light.
> 
>  
> 
> \- fic 1: teenlock. Sherlock is a 6y/o Harry Watson’s ballet instructor. She wants to set him up with her big brother. Sherlock has a thing against rugby boys and rejects John. Baby lesbian antics from Harry Watson and other miniaturized BBC characters.
> 
> \- fic 2: John has a bisexual awakening his first year of uni and belatedly realizes that he had a crush on his best friend growing up all along without even knowing it. He comes home for Sherlock’s graduation, stressed about coming out as bi to Sherlock (who he assumes is straight).
> 
> \- fic 3: This one has a more serious topic, but will still have a lot of humor and fluff. Grad school AU. Frenemies Sherlock and Harry share a flat and end up getting sober together. Sherlock and army!John meet when he comes to visit his sister while on leave. Would deal with realities of alcohol and drug addiction, with plenty of humor and positivity and romance stirred in. 
> 
>  
> 
> I’ll end up writing all of these eventually, but I usually only work on one fic at a time. Definitely let me know in the comments which one I should start writing first!  
> (Also let me know whether you enjoyed this fic, while you're down there <3)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I adore your comments. Find me at grumpy-swoop.tumblr.com


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